A Song of Blood and Gold
by Daemon Blackwater
Summary: Cersei vowed to never have Robert's child, and she failed only once delivering the King his only trueborn son, Damon Baratheon, black of hair.
1. AGOT Damon I

_Author's note:The first chapter of a story that has been going around in my head for the past while, the story of the trueborn Baratheon prince, Damon Baratheon. I'm not sure I'll even continue the story but you never know, I've some other chapters done and I might continue depending on reactions and even then, it won't begin properly anytime soon, I've exams next week and then a very busy summer full of part time jobs and some internships._

* * *

 _In a land where summers can last decades and winters a lifetime, trouble is brewing. The cold is returning, and in the frozen wastes to the north of Winterfell, sinister and supernatural forces are massing beyond the kingdom's protective Wall. At the center of the conflict lies the Prince Damon Baratheon, as proud as a lion and as powerful as a stag. Sweeping from a land of brutal cold to the southern kingdoms whom are enjoying a long summer, here is a tale of lords and ladies, soldiers and sorcerers, assassins and bastards, who come together in a time of grim omens._

 _Here a young prince must prepare for the worst as a cruel dragon prince barters his sister for an army half a world away, an ancient threat stirs from beyond the Wall, his family plots against their enemies and as his mother tries to hide a dark secret that must never come to light. Amid plots and counterplots, tragedy and betrayal, victory and terror, the fate of Prince Damon, his family, his friends, his allies, and their enemies hangs perilously in the balance, as each endeavors to win that deadliest of conflicts: the game of thrones._

The North was completely different from all the other kingdoms in Westeros, the endless amounts of snow that covered the ground like a white carpet. It was bleak yet the rolling hills and snowy fields had an attraction that Damon had never found in any of the other kingdoms. That attraction compelled Damon to ride out with nothing but his weapons and clothes on his back, to travel through the barrows of the First Men, to be free of the viper's nest that Damon had to call home. Even when he was at Casterly Rock, he was never free of the scheming politics but he was protected from it by his grandfather. But still, Tywin Lannister did teach him the art of manipulation so that he would never be some other person's pawn and he would always be his own player.

Damon reminisced about his time at Casterly Rock. He first saw the Rock when he was six years old, he felt tiny beside the splendour of the massive castle and when he came through the castle gates, he was greeted by the man he had heard so much about from his mother, Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West. Damon felt tiny beside him, the man had a commanding presence that made Damon feel obliged to heed what he said and what he wanted Damon to do. Damon still remembered Tywin's intense gaze, as if he was judging Damon, Damon wanted to run back inside the wheelhouse to escape it. The Lord of the Rock welcomed the prince to Casterly Rock and he invited Damon to a feast in the great hall. Damon politely accepted the invitation and he was given a seat of honour at the high table, right beside his grandfather. He witnessed hundreds of people coming and going, paying their respects to their prince and their liege lord, Damon had made sure to say thank you every person who did, like he had seen mother doing to people who paid their respects to her and Damon's father. He had eaten as much as he could have for one night when his grandfather stood up and raised a toast to Damon and every person in the hall followed suit, Damon had to do his best to try and not blush.

Damon had arrived at the Rock terrified with shaking knees and he had went to sleep happy, happier than when he was at King's Landing. He woke up the next morning feeling bloated but he was taken to his grandfather's solar and when he arrived, he was told at what times he would be taught Westeros' history, at what times he would work with Tywin and at what times he would be able to practice swordfighting. Over the years, Damon had proven to be exceptional with numbers and history, especially the history of the wars of Westeros and the battles, even those that had happened hundreds of years before the unification of the Seven Kingdoms under Aegon the Conqueror. The young prince while being impressive in his studies, proved to be a prodigy with a blade, becoming the best swordsman at Casterly Rock at the age of three-and-ten, he would at times take on multiple opponents at once, so he could prepare for a real battle situation.

The black haired prince was taken back to King's Landing for his thirteenth nameday and it was revealed to him that he would not return to the Rock and that he would stay in King's Landing, much to Damon's dissatisfaction. Damon stayed in King's Landing for the next year until his fourteenth nameday and the next day, he rode back to Casterly Rock, leaving the the city of King's Landing in his dust. Damon made a tour of the Westerlands with his uncle Tyrion and great uncle Kevan, he travelled from the Banefort to Payne Hall, from Ashemark to Crakehall. He had met all of the Westerlands lords and knights and when he returned to Casterly Rock, Lord Tywin had revealed to Damon that he intended to name him as his heir when he came of age and the purpose of his tour of the Westerlands was to acquaint himself with the lords he would one day rule. Damon celebrated his fifteenth nameday at Casterly Rock and he travelled back to King's Landing but it wasn't long until he was leaving once again for a tourney at Highgarden, which he had competed in and was runner-up in the joust, being defeated the in final tilt by the Knight of Flowers. Soon after the tourney at Highgarden, Damon found himself on the familiar path leading him back to Casterly Rock.

He arrived at Casterly Rock and the next day he had to leave the Rock to travel to King's Landing for his brother's nameday. He had spent what little time he had on the edge of the cliffs of Casterly Rock, Damon still remembered how the ocean had lit up when the sun the was setting, the sky was ablaze with sunlight, a myriad of gold and copper, the waves of the Sunset sea were crashing against the high cliffs of Casterly Rock. Trading ships were sailing into Lannisport to sell their wares, they had come from all over, from the Free Cities, from the other kingdoms of the Iron Throne, he recognised the sigils of houses from the Reach from his time at Highgarden, sigils of the Crownlands, sigils of the Riverlords and the sigils of the Stormlords. Lannisport lit up, the stone of the port city basking in the sunlight and Casterly Rock stood tall, the grandest fortress in all the Seven Kingdoms, it stood as proud as the lion lords who had ruled there for thousands of years and one day, Damon would rule it all.

"Is something the matter, Damon?"

Damon looked over his shoulder to see his sworn shield, a knight formerly in service to his grandfather called Lucion Lannister. He was the son of Damion Lannister, the son of Damon Lannister, Lord Tywin's cousin by his uncle Jason. Lucion was not expected to do great things for House Lannister given his minor position and his distance from the main branch of House Lannister but when he proved himself to be one of the better swordsmen at the Rock, Tywin had made Lucion Damon's sworn shield. Lucion had bright golden blonde hair cut short, his eyes an outstanding blue that was the most eye catching aspect of him. He had thin lips, a strong jaw and he was gifted with the Lannister's attractiveness. Damon had known Lucion since he moved to Casterly Rock but they only grew close after Lucion became Damon's sworn shield. "Nothing is the matter", Damon replied, "I was just dreaming about Casterly Rock."

It had been four weeks since the King's company had departed from King's Landing for Winterfell in the North, with the entire royal family accompanying him. Six weeks prior, Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, had died from a sudden illness. Damon was riding atop his black destrier, Ebony, at the rear of the company with Ser Arys Oakheart and several of his own personal retinue. Damon's elder brother Joffrey was riding at the front of the column, an honour reserved for the crown prince while the second born was to ride at the back, leading the rearguard. Damon's father, King Robert rode behind the wheelhouse that held Damon's younger brother and sister, as well as his mother.

Lucion laughed, "We haven't even been away from the Rock for two months and you're already yearning to return," Lucion said, smiling.

"Ser Lucion speaks true, my prince, you have always wanted to return to Casterly Rock, no matter where you were or how long you had been gone from it," Ser Arys added, looking splendid in his white armour, his heavy woollen cloak as white as the snow on the ground. Ser Arys had accompanied Damon to Casterly Rock when he became his grandfather's ward, Damon believed that Ser Arys was the only one who was worthy to wear the white cloak, not including the Lord Commander. The rest were just his mother's puppets and Damon's uncle had soiled his cloak with the blood of the king he had sworn to defend. Alas, the kingsguard oaths were for life and you could not remove a white knight from the ancient order.

"Well, when you compare how cold it is here and how warm it is in the south, can you blame me?" Damon japed, earning a laugh from the two knights.

"Pray you never go to the Iron Islands then, Damon," Lucion smiled, "the winds there will make any man shiver in his boots."

"Can't be worse than this," Damon said, wrapping himself in his crimson cloak to keep the cold at bay. "We shall probably halt soon enough so my father can drink once more and tell us stories about his childhood at the Vale." The King could barely stop talking about his best friend Ned and their time at the Vale with each other and how they broke the Targaryens at the Trident, how they made the Ironborn bend the knee. That was the last time that the king had seen his friend, on the shores of Pyke. Damon had never met Eddard Stark so he wouldn't take his father's word for it, he would make his own judgement when he met the man, especially since everything his father said was contradicted by his uncle and mother.

"More likely that your mother's wheelhouse will break down before then," Lucion added, both of them laughed.

His mother's wheelhouse was ludicrously large, Damon didn't think that it would be able to fit through the gates of Winterfell. Damon had one similar when he left for Casterly Rock, not as large as his mother's but it was still massive. Damon loved that wheelhouse, he grinned at the memory, he probably would have still been in that wheelhouse if it wasn't for his grandfather. Lord Tywin had declared that Damon would never again ride in a wheelhouse, a prince should ride a top a horse, leading men and women. Damon had been forced to grow up quickly, act more like the prince that he was and the responsibilities that came with being a prince, but he still had some space for laughter and enjoyment, unlike his grandfather. Damon had never seen Lord Tywin smile except on one occasion when he had returned from his tour of the Westerlands, when he had revealed to Damon that it was his intention to name him as his heir after he came of age. His mother had the widest grin on her face when Damon revealed his grandfather's plan to her, her green eyes lit up with joy.

It wasn't long before Damon could see the ancient fortress of Winterfell on the horizon, it wasn't as large as King's Landing and it didn't look as impressive as Casterly Rock but Damon was still looking in wonder at the Stark castle. The people of Winterfell were lined up at the edge of the road and looked on in awe at the Lannister-Baratheon column as they left Winter Town and entered the castle of Winterfell. As Damon was at the back of the column, when he entered with Ser Arys, Lucion and his guardsmen, the people were already bowing before his father. The black haired prince dismounted once his father had told the people to rise. The entire Stark family were lined up in the front, his father was talking to a man who Damon assumed was Lord Stark and the woman beside him must have been Catelyn Stark for pmerly of House Tully. Their children were lined up beside them, most of them favoured their mother's colouring, the Tully colouring, auburn hair and deep blue eyes, except for one girl, who had a long face, grey eyes and brown hair.

Damon's mother had left the wheelhouse which had, surprisingly, fit through the gates, Myrcella and Tommen were beside her, while Joffrey was still atop his horse, his dog right behind him. His father had taken Lord Eddard to the crypts, to see the Lady Lyanna's tomb. Damon went to greet Lady Stark after his father walked around a corner, disappearing from view. "My Lady Catelyn," he said, leaning down and kissing her on the hand, "I hope you are well."

"My prince," the Lady of Winterfell curtsied, "I am, thank you." Lady Catelyn had fair skin, with long auburn hair and blue eyes. She was beautiful with high cheekbones.

Damon looked to Catelyn's left and and stepped in front of her son. He the tallest of all of them, so he must have been Robb. Robb's appearance favoured his mother's side, with a stocky build, blue eyes and thick red-brown hair. "You must be Robb," Damon said, grabbing Robb's forearm, "pleasure to meet you, I hope to test that swordarm of yours while I am here."

"Likewise, my prince," Robb said, grinning, "just so you know, I am one of the better swordsmen in Winterfell." Damon smiled, there was a dozen people who had beaten Damon in the past and he could probably beat half of them by now, but he would always accept a challenge.

Damon let go of Robb and turned to the girl beside him, she was beautiful, more beautiful than her mother. She took after her mother's family with her high cheekbones, vivid blue eyes and thick auburn hair. "My lady," Damon said, leaning down and kissing her on the hand, "a true pleasure."

She blushed, "Thank you, my prince," she curtsied, like her mother had. Damon assumed that this was Lady Sansa because she was taller than her other sister and, if Damon remembered correctly, Sansa Stark was Lord Eddard's eldest daughter.

Damon then moved onto the next Stark child, the only one to actually look like Eddard Stark with her long face, grey eyes and brown hair, she wasn't as pretty as her sister but she did have a wild beauty to her. "You must be the Lady Arya," Damon bowed, but she did not extend her hand like her mother and sister.

"Yes, I am," she said, Damon was slightly taken aback with her tone, it seemed that she wasn't just different in her appearance compared to her mother and sister. Her mother shot Arya a glare, "My prince," she half-curtsied, Damon smiled, amused at the youngest Stark daughter.

The young prince then stood in front of the next Stark child, once again favouring his mother's side, having thick auburn hair and deep blue eyes. He looked to be around Tommen's age, maybe slightly older, "You must be Bran," Damon said and Bran nodded, "should I be looking for you in the training yard?"

Bran smiled, "I'm not that good but I have been practicing a lot and I have been getting better."

"I am sure you have, I'll look for you in a couple years time at tourneys in the south, you will no doubt be a master in the lists," Damon smiled and mussed Bran's hair. Damon then looked for the final Stark child, Rickard or Rickon was his name, but he was nowhere to be found. Damon looked back to Robb, "Robb, would you mind showing all of the delights that Winterfell has to offer."

After the Stark heir had showed him the castle from top to bottom, dusk had come and they left each other to prepare for the feast. Damon replaced his riding leathers with a fine crimson tunic, with a golden pattern and a fur trimmed collar to keep the cold at bay. He placed his longsword in the corner of his room, he had not given his sword a name like Joffrey had done with his, Damon never named anything until it had proven his worth. The Royal Family were staying in Winterfell's guest house and Damon had been given the easternmost room, he had expected it to be freeezing with the stone walls but it was actually quite pleasant, if anything the room was warmer than his one in the Red Keep.

Soon enough, Damon found himself waiting outside the great hall of Winterfell, with Arya Stark by his side, behind them was Joffrey and Sansa, their arms linked together. It didn't take Damon long to discover that Arya had a greater interest in swords than needles and embroidery, everything a _proper_ lady should do bored her as much as it did Damon. Arya interested Damon, she was different to all the other ladies of the south, it was an interesting change. Sansa on the other hand was extremely boring, she was the _perfect_ lady and there was nothing interesting about her, the only thing that made her stand out was her beauty but half the ladies in the south were beautiful. Joffrey entered the great hall and Damon walked in behind him accompanied by Arya, behind Damon was Robb who was accompanying his sister in the hall. Myrcella had barely taken her eyes off the future Lord of Winterfell, his sister seemed quite taken with Robb which brought a smile to Damon's face, anyone who could make Myrcella happy made Damon happy. Damon noticed Sansa was gazing at Joffrey the same way Myrcella was at Robb. He turned from his siblings to find that Arya had been watching as well. She made a retching noise and Damon chuckled.

The doors of the great hall then swung open and Lord Stark and Damon's mother led the way in, following them was his father and Lady Stark, then the three youngest children walked in after them, Bran, Rickon and Tommen, then Damon accompanied Arya to the table below the high table, where there parents were sat. The both of them sat in their seats and watched the two remaining couples to follow behind them and take their seats. There was a short speech made by his father and then the feasting began.

The feast was an enjoyable affair, with delicious foods from across the North, different from the south but just as enjoyable, the only food he didn't touch was the fish, Damon abhorred any type of fish and just thinking about eating fish made him want to throw up his innards. After the first course and he offered Lady Arya a dance and she declined as he expected she would, _she prefers the song of steel like me_. Damon instead took Lady Jeyne Poole for a dance, she was giddy with excitement during their dance which led her to make many wrong steps. Damon danced with his mother and Lady Sansa, he then finally asked his sister for a dance.

They were both in the centre of the floor when the dance began, "Are you enjoying the feast, little sister?" He asked her.

Myrcella gave a beautiful smile, if there was one woman who was more beautiful than his mother, it was his sister. "Yes, Damon, I am enjoying it a lot."

"And what about Robb Stark?" Myrcella blushed when Damon mentioned the auburn haired Stark. "Do you like him?"

"Yes," Myrcella replied, shyly, "he's so handsome."

Damon smiled, "More handsome than me?"

His sister looked up at him, "No one is as handsome as you, big brother." Myrcella leaned into his chest, they both were in sync with one another, whenever Damon was in King's Landing he spent most of the time with Tommen and Myrcella. Myrcella did a twirl and they finished the dance together. Damon walked his sister back to her seat beside Robb and he returned to his seat where Arya was leaning on one arm, looking tremendously bored.

"Lady Arya, it looks to me that you are not enjoying the feast, may I ask why?" Damon said, taking a swig of mead from his tankard.

"It's not that I am not enjoying it, it is just that there is nothing to do," the young Stark girl explained, turning towards the black haired Baratheon prince.

"Well then, we shall have to remedy that immediately," Damon told her and her eyes had a curious glint to them. "Request something of me and I shall do it."

"Fine," Arya looked around the table and tried to think of something to get him to do. "I want you to give Jeyne Poole a kiss and not a little one, a big, wet one." Damon looked down the table to where Sansa was sitting and beside her was Jeyne. Damon looked at her and spotted that she was dreamily staring at him, when she noticed he was looking, she quickly looked away. Damon got up from his seat, walked over to Jeyne Poole gripped her upper arms and pulled her to her feet, she gasped and her cheeks went red, then he kissed her. Her lips were unmoving, perhaps from shock of kissing the prince, he wrapped his arms around her back and held her tightly, eventually she began to kiss him back and when they parted, she looked shocked and dazed at the same time. Damon turned around, not waiting for her to respond and he sat back down in his seat. He grinned at the Stark girl when he sat down and she seemed impressed.

Damon took another swig from his tankard, "Now, it's time for you to do something, I'll let it be of your choosing."

"I bet I can hit Sansa from here," Arya declared,

"But she's on the other side of the table," Tommen pointed out, "how can you hit her from here?"

"She means that she is going to hit her with some food," Damon whispered into his little brother's ear.

Damon didn't believe that she could get the distance needed to hit her sister, "Go on then", he challenged.

Arya got a piece of food from her plate and put it on her spoon, she closed one eye shut and aimed with the other. A few seconds later, Sansa was screaming about her dress and Arya was being marched off to bed, Damon couldn't stop himself laughing as Arya was being taken away by her older brother. He winked at her as she walked past.

Damon sat back and watch the commotion of the feast die down around him, people were beginning to pass out from drinking too much, Damon's father included. Damon had moved to his mother's side at the high table, she turned to him and said, "Be a dear and take your brother and sister to bed," cupping his face in her hands.

"Of course, mother dear," he kissed her hand and went to fetch Tommen and Myrcella. Myrcella was still looking longingly at Robb Stark when they left. He brought them to Winterfell's guest house and tucked them both into bed, kissing them both on the forehead, blowing the candle out in Myrcella's room and leaving one lit in Tommen's room. Damon contemplated returning to the great hall but decided against it and went to bed himself, the heat of his room sending him into a blissful peace.


	2. AGOT Arya

_Ser Goldenhand:The story is mostly loyal to canon for the first book because I didn't think a second born prince who spent most of his time in the Westerlands could change much but in the second book, everything is completely flipped and nearly every storyline will be altered,_

* * *

Arya's stitches were crooked again.

She frowned down at them with dismay and glanced over to where her Sansa sat among the other girls. Sansa's needlework was exquisite. Everyone said so. "Sansa's work is as pretty as she is," Septa Mordane told their lady mother once. "She has such fine, delicate hands." When Lady Catelyn had asked about Arya, the septa had sniffed. "Arya has the hands of a blacksmith."

Arya glanced across the room, worried that Septa Mordane might have read her thoughts, but the septa was paying her no attention today. She was sitting with the Princess Myrcella, all smiles and admiration. It was not often that the septa was privileged to instruct a royal princess in the womanly arts, as she had said when the queen brought Myrcella to join them. Arya thought that Myrcella's stitches looked a little crooked too, but you would never know it from the way Septa Mordane was cooing.

She studied her own work again, looking for some way to salvage it, then sighed and put down the needles. She looked glumly at her sister. Sansa was chatting away happily as she worked. Beth Cassel, Ser Rodrik's daughter, was sitting by her side, listening to every word she said, and Jeyne Poole was leaning over to whisper something in her ear.

"What are you talking about?" Arya asked suddenly.

Jeyne gave her a startled look, then giggled. Sansa looked abashed. Beth blushed. No one answered.

"Tell me," Arya said, impatiently,

Jeyne glanced over to make certain that Septa Mordane was not listening. Myrcella said something then, and the septa laughed along with the rest of the ladies.

"We were talking about the prince," Sansa said, her voice soft as a kiss.

Arya knew which prince Sansa meant: Joffrey, of course. He was tall and handsome with curly blonde hair. Sansa got to sit with him at the feast. Arya had sat beside Damon, Joffrey's younger brother. He was even taller than Joffrey and had hair as black as night. He was nice to Arya during the feast and they played a game together, Arya dared him to kiss Jeyne Poole and to her surprise, he actually did it. Now, Jeyne thought that Damon was actually in love with her. Arya had thought about telling her that he only kissed her because Arya dared him to but Arya thought it was much more funny seeing Jeyne talk about Damon to Beth and Sansa when only Arya knew the truth.

"Joffrey likes your sister," Jeyne whispered, proud as if she had something to do with it. She was the daughter of Winterfell's steward and Sansa's dearest friend. "He told her she was very beautiful."

"He's going to marry her," little Beth said dreamily, hugging herself. "Then Sansa will be queen of all the realm."

Sansa had the grace to blush. She blushed prettily. She did everything prettily, Arya thought with dull resentment.

"Beth, you shouldn't make up stories," Sansa corrected the younger girl, gently stroking her to take the harshness out of her words. She looked at Arya. "What did you think of Prince Joff, sister? He's very gallant, don't you think?"

"I prefer Damon," Arya said, Jeyne then glared at her.

Sansa sighed as she stitched. "Of course, Prince Damon is gallant as well," she said, "but Joff is . . ."

"A girl," Arya finished for her sister. Sansa looked at her, appalled at her words.

"Arya, you shouldn't speak of a prince that way," Sansa said, upset.

"Besides, Arya Horseface," Arya grimaced at the old nickname Jeyne had given her, she hadn't used it in a long time, "A noble prince like Damon would never want to have anything to do with someone like you." Jeyne said, much too loudly. Her voice cut through the afternoon quiet of the tower room.

Septa Mordane raised her eyes. She had a bony face, sharp eyes, and a thin lipless mouth made for frowning. It was frowning now. "What are you talking about, children?"

"The Princess," Sansa corrected, soft and precise. She smiled for the septa. "Arya and I were remarking on how pleased we were to have the princess with us today," she said.

Septa Mordane nodded. "Indeed. A great honor for us all." Princess Myrcella smiled uncertainly at the compliment. "Arya, why aren't you at work?" the septa asked. She rose to her feet, starched skirts rustling as she started across the room. "Let me see your stitches."

Arya wanted to scream. It was just like Sansa to go and attract the septa's attention. "Here," she said, surrendering up her work.

The septa examined the fabric. "Arya, Arya, Arya," she said. "This will not do. This will not do at all."

Everyone was looking at her. It was too much. Sansa was too well bred to smile at her sister's disgrace, but Jeyne was smirking on her behalf. Even Princess Myrcella looked sorry for her. Arya felt tears filling her eyes. She pushed herself out of her chair and bolted for the door.

Septa Mordane called after her. "Arya, come back here! Don't you take another step! Your lady mother will hear of this. In front of our royal princess too! You'll shame us all!"

Arya stopped at the door and turned back, biting her lip. The tears were running down her cheeks now. She managed a stiff little bow to Myrcella. "By your leave, my lady."

Myrcella blinked at her and looked to her ladies for guidance. But if she was uncertain, Septa Mordane was not. "Just where do you think you are going, Arya?" the septa demanded.

Arya glared at her. "I have to go shoe a horse," she said sweetly, taking a brief satisfaction in the shock on the septa's face. Then she whirled and made her exit, running down the steps as fast as her feet would take her.

It wasn't fair. Sansa had everything. Sansa was older and prettier; maybe by the time Arya had been born, there had been nothing left. Often it felt that way. Sansa could sew and dance and sing. She wrote poetry. She knew how to dress. She played the high harp and the bells. Worse, she was beautiful. Sansa had gotten their mother's fine high cheekbones and the thick auburn hair of the Tullys. Arya took after their lord father. Her hair was a lusterless brown, and her face was long and solemn. Jeyne used to call her Arya Horseface, and neigh whenever she came near. It hurt that the one thing Arya could do better than her sister was ride a horse. Well, that and manage a household. Sansa had never had much of a head for figures. If she did marry Prince Joff, Arya hoped for his sake that he had a good steward.

Nymeria was waiting for her in the guardroom at the base of the stairs. She bounded to her feet as soon as she caught sight of Arya. Arya grinned. The wolf pup loved her, even if no one else did. They went everywhere together, and Nymeria slept in her room, at the foot of her bed. If Mother had not forbidden it, Arya would gladly have taken the wolf with her to needlework. Let Septa Mordane complain about her stitches then.

Nymeria nipped eagerly at her hand as Arya untied her. She had yellow eyes. When they caught the sunlight, they gleamed like two golden coins. Arya had named her after the warrior queen of the Rhoyne, who had led her people across the narrow sea. That had been a great scandal too. Sansa, of course, had named her pup "Lady." Arya made a face and hugged the wolfling tight. Nymeria licked her ear, and she giggled.

By now Septa Mordane would certainly have sent word to her lady mother. If she went to her room, they would find her. Arya did not care to be found. She had a better notion. The boys were at practice in the yard. She wanted to see Robb put gallant Prince Joffrey flat on his back. "Come," she whispered to Nymeria. She got up and ran, the wolf coming hard at her heels.

There was a window in the covered bridge between the armory and the Great Keep where you had a view of the whole yard. That was where they headed.

They arrived, flushed and breathless, to find Jon seated on the sill, one leg drawn up languidly to his chin. He was watching the action, so absorbed that he seemed unaware of her approach until his white wolf moved to meet them. Nymeria stalked closer on wary feet. Ghost, already larger than his litter mates, smelled her, gave her ear a careful nip, and settled back down.

Jon gave her a curious look. "Shouldn't you be working on your stitches, little sister?"

Arya made a face at him. "I wanted to see them fight."

He smiled. "Come here, then."

Arya climbed up on the window and sat beside him, to a chorus of thuds and grunts from the yard below.

To her disappointment, it was the younger boys drilling. Bran was so heavily padded he looked as though he had belted on a featherbed, and Prince Tommen, who was plump to begin with, seemed positively round. They were huffing and puffing and hitting at each other with padded wooden swords under the watchful eye of old Ser Rodrik Cassel, the master-at-arms, a great stout keg of a man with magnificent white cheek whiskers. A dozen spectators, man and boy, were calling out encouragement, Arya had heard Robb but his voice faded into the background, when Prince Damon began shouting support for his brother. She spotted Theon Greyjoy beside her brother, his black doublet emblazoned with the golden kraken of his House, a look of wry contempt on his face. Both of the combatants were staggering. Arya judged that they had been at it awhile.

"A shade more exhausting than needlework," Jon observed.

"A shade more fun than needlework," Arya gave back at him. Jon grinned, reached over, and messed up her hair. Arya flushed. They had always been close. Jon had their father's face, as she did. They were the only ones. Robb and Sansa and Bran and even little Rickon all took after the Tullys, with easy smiles and fire in their hair. When Arya had been little, she had been afraid that meant that she was a bastard too. It had been Jon she had gone to in her fear, and Jon who had reassured her.

"Why aren't you down in the yard?" Arya asked him.

He gave her a half smile. "Bastards are not allowed to damage young princes," he said. "Any bruises they take in the practice yard must come from trueborn swords."

"Oh." Arya felt abashed. She should have realized. For the second time today, Arya reflected that life was not fair.

She watched her little brother whack at Tommen. "I could do just as good as Bran," she said. "I'm quicker and older than him and Prince Tommen."

Jon looked her over with all his elderly wisdom. "You're too skinny," he said. He took her arm to feel her muscle. Then he sighed and shook his head. "I doubt you could even lift a longsword, little sister, never mind swing one."

Arya snatched back her arm and glared at him. Jon messed up her hair again. They watched Bran and Tommen circle each other.

"You see Prince Joffrey?" Jon asked.

She hadn't, not at first glance, but when she looked again she found him to the back, under the shade of the high stone wall. He was surrounded by men she did not recognize, young squires in the livery of Lannister and Baratheon, strangers all. There were a few among them; knights, she surmised.

"Look at the arms on his surcoat," Jon suggested.

Arya looked. An ornate shield had been embroidered on the prince's padded surcoat. No doubt the needlework was exquisite. The arms were pided down the middle; on one side was the crowned stag of the royal House, on the other the lion of Lannister.

"The Lannisters are proud," Jon observed. "You'd think the royal sigil would be sufficient, but no. He makes his mother's House equal in honor to the king's."

"The woman is important too!" Arya protested.

Jon chuckled. "Perhaps you should do the same thing, little sister. Wed Tully to Stark in your arms."

"A wolf with a fish in its mouth?" It made her laugh. "That would look silly. Besides, if a girl can't fight, why should she have a coat of arms?"

Jon shrugged. "Girls get the arms but not the swords. Bastards get the swords but not the arms. I did not make the rules, little sister."

There was a shout from the courtyard below. Prince Tommen was rolling in the dust, trying to get up and failing. All the padding made him look like a turtle on its back. Bran was standing over him with an upraised wooden sword, ready to whack him again once he regained his feet. The men began to laugh.

"Enough!" Ser Rodrik called out. He gave the prince a hand and yanked him back to his feet. "Well fought. Lew, Donnis, help them out of their armor." He looked around. "Prince Damon, Robb, will you go another round?"

Robb, already sweaty from a previous bout, moved forward eagerly. "Gladly."

Damon, stepped forward, taller than most men in the courtyard and he looked at Robb. "Are you sure, Stark? I don't want to embarrass the heir to Winterfell," Damon said, the Lannister and Baratheon men jeered at the northmen.

"You can try, but don't expect to get lucky," Robb said, confidently.

Robb and Damon both moved to the centre of the courtyard and they were handed tourney blades. "I don't believe in luck," Damon said, twirling the blade in his hands, switching between right and left, adjusting his grip before he finally grasped it in his left hand.

Robb leaned on his back leg and grasped his blade tightly, his eyes focused on the blue eyed prince. Damon lazily took a stance and extended his swordarm. Ser Rodrik stepped and looked from Robb to Damon and he shouted, "Begin."

They leapt at each other.

Robb was the first to attack, his sword flashing left and right, up and down, striking high and low, but whatever he did, Damon had a response. He blocked, parried and deflected Robb's powerful blows, moving with more speed than Arya had expected him to. Robb attacked with a flurry of blows, forcing Damon to move back, the northmen were cheering Robb loudly. When Damon was forced to the edge of the ring that the men had made, he locked blades with Robb and in a moment all of Robb's momentum had vanished.

Robb pushed, knocking Damon's blade aside and slashing a powerful blow at his belly. Damon effortlessly spun out of the way and Robb had to move back to regain his balance. Arya could almost hear her brother panting on the bridge while Damon looked as fresh as he had when they started the duel. Robb moved forward but he stopped before he got within striking range and moved into a defensive stance.

Damon smirked and moved the blade to his right hand, the black haired prince then moved forward and attacked with four powerful high blows, which sent Robb sprawling across the ground to regain his footing. Before Robb could recover, Damon was attacking once more, he again was attacking with high blows and before Arya knew, his blade was attacking Robb's ankle. Robb lifted his foot up in time but Damon brought up his sword and slammed into Robb's belly, Robb's legs buckled and he fell to ground, winded.

Damon moved back from Robb and tossed his sword up into the air, catching it deftly in his left hand as it came down, he spun towards the Lannister-Baratheon end of the courtyard and raised his arms, the prince was given a roar of approval from the soldiers. Robb was slowly making his way to his feet, leaning on his tourney blade for support, the northmen were shouting encouragement at him. Robb finally stood up straight, holding his side with his left hand, Damon turned around and faced Robb. Robb began walking over to the prince, Robb then grasped the sword with both hands and he thrust the sword forward with the last of his strength. Damon moved back and batted the sword out of Robb's hands, bringing his own blade to Robb's throat.

"Wow," Jon said, under his breath, "I heard that Prince Damon was trained by Ser Barristan but I never expected him to be that good." Arya remembered hearing Bran talk about Ser Barristan the Bold, he said that Barristan was the deadliest knight alive but Arya didn't know how anyone could be better than Damon.

Joffrey moved into the sunlight and towards his younger brother. His hair shone like spun gold. He looked bored. Arya had to strain her ears to hear what the Crown Prince was saying. "Brother, why do you bother yourself with these childish games," he said, in a distasteful tone. Damon did not bother to answer, all he did was walk over to a man with bright blonde hair. "Brother, you will look at me when I talk to you," Joffrey said, louder and with an annoyed tone.

Damon whispered something to the man with bright blonde hair, who then gave a bark of laughter. "What is it?" Joffrey said. "What is it?! I demand you tell me what you said as your Crown Prince." Still, Damon did not move, taking a drink from a cup of water. Joffrey walked closer to Damon and said, "You always were stupid, Damon. You always did like to play childish games, you acted more like a girl than a proper prince." Damon did not move at the slight, everyone in the courtyard was silent watching Joffrey insult his brother. Robb tried to move forward but was stopped by Theon and Ser Rodrik. "You still act like a child, swatting at your pet Starks with a play sword." Arya could see that Damon was beginning to flex his fingers, trying his hardest not to let them get to him. "I wonder, are you even my brother, you don't look like _us,_ you dont have our hair, you don't have our eyes, perhaps you are just some tavern wenches son that our father brought home with him after a drunken night."

It then all happened so fast, Damon spun around and knocked Joffrey over, sending him sprawling onto the ground. The black haired prince jumped onto the golden haired prince and he continued to hit him. Men were trying to pull Damon off of Joffrey and they succeeded but Damon wiggled his way out of their grasp and tackled his brother to the ground once more. Damon looked like a man possessed, delivering blow after blow, he did not seem to tire, attacking with the same amount of ferocity as he had at the beginning. It took five men to get Damon off of Joffrey and even then, they were struggling to keep hold of the black haired prince.

"STOP THIS MADNESS IN THE NAME OF YOUR KING!"

Arya looked over to where King Robert and her father walked into the courtyard. Damon was still being held back by five men. Joffrey was lying on the ground, curled up into a ball in a pool of his own making. Joffrey was crying, tears and blood coating his face, leaving no skin to be seen. Damon was released and stalked off toward the guesthouse and Joffrey was helped up and taken to the maester's turret.

Jon and Arya watched them leave. Her face had grown as still as the pool at the heart of the godswood. Jon then climbed down off the window. "The show is done," he said. He bent to scratch Ghost behind the ears. The white wolf rose and rubbed against him. "You had best run back to your room, little sister. Septa Mordane will surely be lurking. The longer you hide, the sterner the penance. You'll be sewing all through winter. When the spring thaw comes, they will find your body with a needle still locked tight between your frozen fingers."

Arya didn't think it was funny. "I hate needlework!" she said with passion. "It's not fair!"

"Nothing is fair," Jon said. He messed up her hair again and walked away from her, Ghost moving silently beside him. Nymeria started to follow too, then stopped and came back when she saw that Arya was not coming.

Reluctantly she turned in the other direction.

It was worse than Jon had thought. It wasn't Septa Mordane waiting in her room. It was Septa Mordane and her mother.


	3. AGOT Eddard I

_Vulcran:Who says it's going to be any of them?_

 _Guest:Your worries are misplaced,_

* * *

The room was quiet except for Robert's chewing of a gammon steak. The servants had left as soon as the food had been laid out before the Lord of Winterfell and the King. Robert had eagerly lunged at the food but Ned had only pushed the plate away and looked at his king take a large gulp of wine. _No wonder he had gained so much weight since I last saw him_. His friend had been handsome and clean shaven when they way were younger, but he had grew beard, a wild and fierce thing, which served to hide his double chin. Most of the time that Ned saw Robert, he was in his cups and red-faced from the drink. Robert had been heavily muscled during the Rebellion but he had gained a significant amount of weight since Ned had last seen him during the Greyjoy Rebellion. But Robert was still a very imposing man, standing at six and a half feet, even sitting down, Robert was taller than some of the servants in the castle. The only things that didn't change was Robert's hair and eyes, his hair was as still a coal black and his eyes a sapphire blue.

"Forgive my boy about that business in the yard, Ned, I don't know what came over Damon," Ned looked at Robert, who had just finished the gammon steak. "He should have kept his head" It was the last night of the Royal visit and Robert wanted to have dinner with only Ned before they left for the capital. Ned was reluctant to leave Bran's side, Robert was close to commanding Ned to attend before he accepted. Ned simply nodded his head in acceptance of the apology. Damon had given Ned one before he had left Winterfell's walls in haste with his sworn shield.

Ned had rushed out to the training yard with Robert when they heard the commotion and they found Lannisters, Starks and Baratheons up in arms. At the centre of the brawl was Prince Damon and Prince Joffrey scuffling in the dirt. It had taken half a dozen men to take Prince Damon off of Joffrey, who did his best to try and hide his face but Ned could see and hear that he was sobbing. Damon on the other hand was still trying to get at his brother, five men holding him back, each one holding a different limb and each one was struggling to combat his strength. The queen was calling for blood when Damon had been carried out of the courtyard, trying to pry his limbs from the guards grasp, in that instance, Ned had seen Robert in the black haired prince. Robert had always been wroth as a child and it took many men to stop him when he wanted something. _He broke Rhaegar's body in a single blow with his anger, could Damon do that to Joffrey?_

Damon was more similar to Robert than just his anger, he was the only one of his children to look like him, with the Baratheon colouring. His dark long hair that fell to his shoulders and his deep blue eyes, that were so blue they could be mistaken for a dark violet. He was nearly as tall as his father, just two inches shy of Robert. Ned had blinked when he saw Damon in Winterfell's courtyard when he saw him ride in to Winterfell on his black destrier, his head held high and a bit stubble was growing on his chin. He had looked so much like Robert when he was that age, he was muscled like a maiden's fantasy and had his father's strong jaw. He bear little resemblance to his golden haired siblings and his Lannister side except for his handsome looks and his sly smile.

Robert had decided that he would punish both boys harshly when they returned to the capital, Robert quickly quietened his queen when she wanted a punishment for just Damon, while Joffrey was to be let go without being disciplined. Ned had been shocked by the queen's reaction, he couldn't fathom Catelyn calling for Bran to be severely punished if Robb and him got into a fight. Cersei had not been aloud to voice her reasons however, Robert had shot her down quickly and declared that Joffrey was asking for a fight when he called Damon a "bastard" and that he should have been able to back up his words in a fight. Sansa could hardly stop crying for her golden prince, saying that that "black demon" had tried to kill Joffrey because he was jealous of Joffrey being heir to the Iron Throne. Arya on the other hand had taken Damon's side, saying that he was the insulted party and he deserved justice, as in everything, Arya and Sansa were polar opposites.

"Damon had always been courteous whenever I talked to him," Ned said, "why would he react like that? I know Joffrey shouldn't have called him what he did but I feel Damon had overreacted." Ned remembered seeing Joffrey in the maester's turret after the crowd had dispersed, Luwin had washed the blood away and brushed the dirt out of his hair. The boy had a dozen different cuts decorating his soft features and his mother was cradling him in her arms while the Crown Prince was crying into her bosom.

Robert was sighing in disappointment when he saw his son bawling his eyes out, while he was now chuckling about his other son, grease falling down his thick beard. "Damon and his brother have never gotten along, Joffrey ofttimes bullied Damon," Robert explained, "which is most likely the reason he spends little time at King's Landing, he prefers to spend time away from the capital." Robert got a servant to pour him another goblet of wine and downed it in one go. "I tried to keep him in King's Landing one year but like most of my decisions, it was a poor one. Joffrey bullied Damon and every other day, the Long Night occurred once again. It eventually got so bad, I had to move Damon to the maidenvault. Jon had to preplan their days so that they wouldn't meet each other, but every now and then, they came across each other in the Red Keep's halls and they got into an argument."

Robert had another gammon steak served and began to munch down on it. "But gods, Ned, you should have seen Damon in the practice yard at the Red Keep, he put men three times his age to shame, and he could fight three different men at the same time. He rode a horse like he was born on one and it seemed like the lance was just an extension of his arm, he could wield a sword with either hand and throw a spear like the warrior himself. Sometimes, I wish Damon had been my first born, he is not perfect, he can be as wroth as me at times, but he would be a king that would be remembered fondly I'm sure, more than myself and Joffrey that is to be sure."

"Why do you not name him your heir then?" Ned asked, wondering why he wouldn't do it, he had the power to do so.

Robert gave a bark of laughter, bits of steak flying out of his mouth as he did so. "That boy doesn't want the damned Iron seat, he'd hate me more than he does already, Joffrey would hate me, Cersei would do all in her power to stop Damon from walking up those steps and there would no doubt be a civil war," Robert's usually jovial features were saddened. "Don't think I haven't considered naming him my heir but I can't, the boy's future has already been decided."

"What does that mean, Robert?" Eddard asked. "Is he going to be given Storm's End?"

Robert seemed amused by the idea, "Oh, how I wish he could be given Storm's End, he is more like me than he would ever care to admit, he is as good a warrior as me, if not better, and from what Varys has told me, he has had his way with a few woman."

"How old is he?" Ned asked, his first and only woman he had ever laid was his beloved wife, Catelyn. Brandon had been different, he had lain with a dozen different woman, Ned remembered Brandon had said, "A bloody sword is a beautiful thing."

"Fifteen, by then I had already been with half a dozen", Robert said, unashamedly.

"By fifteen you already had a child," Ned pointed out, a bastard girl from the Vale. Ned did not mention her anymore because thinking of her brought back memories of the Vale and Jon Arryn, neither of them wanted to think about him.

"I don't think Damon is as careless as me when it comes to having bastards," Robert laughed. Ned knew that besides the girl in the Vale, Robert had a bastard boy by a Florent and he suspected that his king had a couple others.

"Does he have his eye on any person in particular?" Ned asked. It would be unlikely that Damon would be matched with someone of his choosing, the sons of Kings and high lords never had that choice, Ned had been lucky with being married to Cat. He could only hope that Joffrey would be like that for Sansa.

"The last I heard, or rather the last Varys heard, he had been friendly with a Westerling girl," Robert said, taking another gulp of wine. "She was named J—J—Jeyne? I think, I probably have it wrong. That's another downside to being king," Robert said, pointing his knife at Eddard, "there's too many bloody names you have to remember." He jammed the knife into the last bit of his steak.

"Westerling?" Ned couldn't remember anything about them, he thought there might have been a Westerling-Targaryen queen but he could have been wrong. "Would you consider arranging a match?" Robert might consider it if Damon was as in love with the Westerling girl as Robert was with Lyanna.

"I had thought of it but then I learned about their current state," said Robert, getting another goblet of wine. The dishes were being taken away from the table by servants leaving only the candlesticks on the ironwood table. "They can barely raise hundred men and Lord Westerling is married to a spice merchant. Their home is more of a ruin than a castle and it's not like I have a choice, even if I wanted to betroth them, Cersei would kill the poor girl before she took a foot in the Red Keep and that would only happen if Lord Tywin allowed her to take a step out of the Westerlands which I say he would not allow."

"I understand that her family is not prestigious enough to marry into the royal family but you still have a choice," Ned said, "you are the king and his father."

"Cersei would kill any girl before the got to the weddding bed, she wants him to marry a Lannister bride and the Fat Flower wants his daughter to marry into the royal family, to gain a stronger grasp on Highgarden or so my councillors tell me," Robert had finished another goblet of wine while Ned was still on his first. "The Westerling girl is nothing compared to them."

"Will you marry him off to the Tyrell or Lannister then?" Ned asked, he never liked talking about marriages, it reminded him of his father's endless betrothals and all it brought to them was death. _If Lyanna had been betrothed to a northern lord, would she still be alive now? Would Brandon? Would my father?_ Ned still understood the necessity of it, he would have to start thinking about it for Robb soon enough, Ned could think of two off the top of his head, Rickard Karstark's daughter and Wyman Manderly's granddaughter.

"To get the answer, you'll have to ask Tywin Lannister, as Damon is the future Lord of the Rock, all the matters of his future have been given to Lord Tywin to decide," Robert sighed but Ned was fuming.

"You let him ward for Tywin Lannister!" Ned stood up and shouted, his chair sliding back on the hard cold floor and falling over. He had drawn the attention of everyone in the room, Ned coldly glared at them all and they quickly resumed what they had been doing prior to Ned's shouting. "You must remember what that man did during the rebellion," Ned whispered, feeling the need to compensate for shouting at his king.

"Ned, shut your mouth," Robert said, annoyed. "That matter was settled years ago and if you must know, Lord Tywin hasn't been teaching Damon how to kill children barely off their mother's teat. Damon actually has an affinity with children if you would care to listen and he has been taught to act like a proper prince. Believe me when I tell you, Damon as a child was a nightmare, he was rude, brutally honest and insulting and when I next saw him after a year with Tywin Lannister, he was courteous and polite, never once insulting a single person."

"Then how do you explain that business in the yard?" Ned asked in a cold tone. _If he wanted someone to raise Damon, he should have sent him to me._

"He is still my son," Robert reminded him, "you have to expect him to be like me in some ways." He smiled but Ned was still unconvinced.

"And Lord Tywin, the man who brought House Lannister back to being Westeros' richest and most powerful house, is going to willingly hand Casterly Rock to the Baratheons?" Ned asked, still annoyed about Damon's upbringing.

Robert shook his head, disappointedly, "No, one of the criteria for him to inherit the Rock is that Damon will take the name Lannister, the name of his mother." Robert looked saddened and took another large gulp of wine calling for another.

"And what will you be getting in return, Robert? It better be bloody well worth it," Ned finished his first goblet and placed it on the table to be refilled as Robert began his fifth.

Robert sighed deeply, "In exchange for Damon taking the Lannister name and being acknowledged as Lord Tywin's heir, Lord Tywin will forgive the Crowns debt to House Lannister of two million gold dragons."

Ned was taken aback at the number, he did not believe that Jon Arryn would allow Robert to beggar the Seven Kingdoms. Ned shook his head, "You should have sent him to me Robert," he told him, "I would have raised him like Jon raised us and he and Robb would have been like brothers."

"You were my first choice but when the time came to decide where Damon would be sent to foster, my hands were tied and I had to send him to Lord Tywin, even Jon encouraged it, I believe he said it was politically convenient," Robert said. Ned was disappointed to hear that his foster father had agreed to expose a child to Lord Tywin's ruthlessness.

Now that Ned had learned what Damon had grown up with, he had to know something, "He apologised for hitting Joffrey," Ned said, "did he actually mean it?"

Robert sighed once more, "What were his exact words?" he asked, rubbing his eyes.

Ned made a face, confused, but he eventually tried to remember what Damon had exactly said, "'I apologise for bringing such violence into your home, Lord Stark,' Damon said," Ned recited it and then he caught onto what Robert was saying.

"Damon may lie but he will always prefer to manipulate the truth, he did apologise, yes, to you, but about hitting Joffrey, he'll never apologise, no matter what you say or do to him, you will never be able to change his mind if he believes in something with conviction," Robert explained. "He believes that he had the right to hit Joffrey and to be honest, I believe the same thing."

"Were you not surprised when he pummelled Joffrey?" Ned asked suspiciously but Robert only laughed in response.

"I'm surprised it took him this long," Robert smiled, "I had expected him to be up and at Joffrey before we reached Winterfell, I'd say he expected that as well. It was easy for Joffrey to bully Damon when they were younger but now that they're older, Damon has the upper hand."

"How so?" Ned asked.

Robert sighed, "When they were young, Damon was . . . he wasn't well liked by most of the court and Joffrey was the heir so whenever Joffrey wanted to bully Damon, Joffrey would have everyone at his beck and call. But now, after Damon returned to King's Landing he had won over the noblemen and the smallfolk within a matter of days with his charm and never mind that he is physically superior to Joffrey."

"Have they ever fought like they did in the yard before you came to Winterfell, Robert?" Ned asked, worriedly.

"No, it was never that bad," Robert said as he pondered. "It was usually only heated arguments where the worst wounds were done to each other's pride. Even then, like now, Joffrey was usually the instigator."

"Robert? Am I making a mistake betrothing Sansa to Joffrey?" Ned asked, beginning to worry for his eldest daughter.

Robert sighed, "Joffrey . . . Joffrey is not the easiest person to deal with but he knows how he should treat a lady with respect," Robert didn't seem wholly convinced of his own words. "But he is still young yet and he can be taught to be honourable with your help." _He's six-and-ten, how much can he learn, he should be his own man now._

The rest of the night was spent in silence and by the time Ned had found his way to the bottom of his second cup, Robert was passed out on the table. Ned had the servants carry Robert to the nearest bed while he went to his own chambers, finding them empty once more. Catelyn was still with Bran. While Ned was in his bed lying in the dark, listening to Bran's direwolf howl into the midnight, he thought that maybe a marriage between the Baratheons and the Starks was not safe for his children at the moment.


	4. AGOT Damon II

_Takai-taka: I've gotten a bit sick of those pairings as well, right now, my plans for Damon will take him away from the girls, so you shouldn't have any worries._

 _Dipsyy: Alas, Damon's dalliance with Jeyne leaves a bitter taste in his mouth with how it ended._

 _Guest: Cersei does love Damon, never doubt that but his relationship with her is a love/hate one, he is everything a Lannister should be but he is also a lot like his father (much to Damon's chagrin), so in that moment she saw Damon as the brute his father is while he was beating down on her beloved Joffrey. In her POV chapters it's extremely clear that Joffrey was on a golden pedestal for her and he could do no wrong._

* * *

Damon only saw a blur of blue, green, brown and yellow. He galloped along the riverside as fast as he possibly could without steering his horse into one of the trees he passed, for a moment he allowed himself to close his eyes and he was serene. He couldn't hear anything except the wind blasting in his ears and the feeling of it whipping his hair back. Damon felt as if he was one with his horse, his body moved in motion with Ebony and he felt safe, as if nothing could harm him as long as he was mounted on his horse.

"Damon!"

Damon opened his eyes and the surreal feeling he had just experienced was gone and it was as if as it never happened. The prince knew who the voice had belonged to, he wheeled his horse around to meet with his sister, Myrcella. He was usually much taller than her but on her small mare and Damon on his large destrier, it made it look almost comical the difference in size between them. She wore simple riding leathers the colour of Lannister gold, matching her hair, whereas Damon wore a simple brown leather doublet.

"Do you have to ride so fast?" she asked, bringing her mare to a halt. Her hair was messy and her perfect curls were in shambles. _Something my mother will blame me for no doubt._ Ever since Damon had beaten Joffrey, his mother always found a way to blame him for anything that went wrong. Thankfully, Damon had not been around to her his mother complain about him because he had left Winterfell soon after he was dragged from Joffrey, but Myrcella was glad to have filled him in on all the details of what was said about him, she didn't use the exact words their mother used but Damon had a rough idea of what his mother would have said, she gave him a tongue lashing.

"Sister, all you need to say is that you would like me to keep pace with you," Damon said as Myrcella began to try and salvage what was left of her curls. _My sweet sister._ She looked so innocent at times like this, on her snow white mare with her big emerald eyes. She had inherited all of their mother's beauty and none of her wickedness. _She'll win all the men in Westeros with a bat of her eyelashes when she's older._

"Well, alright, can you keep pace with me then?" she asked.

"Whatever my princess commands," he mock bowed and he earned a giggle from her.

They then began to canter beside the Trident, the grass green and the tide low, there was few leaves on the ground and every single on of them in the trees were green. _How long has this summer been? Nine? Ten years?_ Damon barely remembered the last winter, he was just a child then and now he was nearly a man grown, soon to be formally made the heir to Casterly Rock and the entirety of the Westerlands.

"Did you really visit the Barrows of the First Men?" Myrcella asked, as she edged her horse a little closer to Damon.

Damon looked at his sister who stared up at him with her eyes sparkling like emeralds, full of curiosity. She was leaning so close to him that she looked like she was about to fall off of her horse. "Yes, I did visit the Barrows," Damon said.

"What were they like?"

They turned left at a bend in the river while Damon thought of the best way to describe the ancient barrows. "They Barrows were built into hills with a single door leading in and leading out, inside there were statues of the men buried there. The statues were faded and there was no longer any distinguishable features that remained. The barrows were cold and dark, as if the inside of the barrows had not felt the warmth of a fire or the light of the sun in millennia. They were unsettling as well, as if the statues were watching your every movement when you weren't looking at them, I could almost feel their cold dead eyes boreing into the back of my skull, it felt like they were following me and at any moment they would wrap their stone hands around my neck and choke the life from my body. You could hear the whistling of the wind even though their was none to be felt, the barrows almost felt like they didn't want us to be there and were trying to tell us to leave." Damon looked back at his sister and she had a horrified expression on her face.

Damon knew that his sister was easily scared and scolded himself in his head for describing the barrows in such a way. _She most likely will never want to return North._ Now that he thought about it, he didn't think that that was such a bad idea. Damon steered the conversation away from the barrows and asked his sister what she thought she of the Stark girls.

"They're both very nice," she said, "Sansa seems to be more girly than Arya is though, Arya is more boyish." Damon remembered both of the girls from Winterfell, Sansa did seem to be like a swooning maiden waiting for her white knight to come for her. _She'll be sorely disappointed with Joffrey._ Arya would be hidden away from court if she had belonged to a southron family, her tendency to do childish acts wouldn't be accepted in King's Landing. _No doubt Lord Stark intends to keep her in the Tower of the Hand for her stay_.

"What did you think of the Stark boys before . . . before you left Winterfell?" She seemed hesitant to ask the question as soon as she had said the words. His sister abhorred the violence between Damon and Joffrey but there was little she could do besides completely ignoring the times that he and his brother came to blows.

"Robb Stark has a good head on his shoulders, no doubt he'll be a fine lord when his father passes," Damon could see that his sister blushed at the mention of Winterfell's heir. "Rickon reminds me of what Tommen was like when he was his age, and Bran, I feel sorry for him, nobody deserves to have something like that happen to them, especially not a child." Damon had left Winterfell before Bran's incident but he had heard all about it when he had found the King's party again. He could not imagine a world where he lost his legs, he would rather be dead than be a cripple, he couldn't ride, he couldn't fight and he couldn't even run or jump.

They rode in silence for a while after that, only breaking the silence when Myrcella asked him for a drink from his flask. The air was warm as the sun shone down on them from its high perch in the open blue sky, no cloud in sight. The only sound was the sweet song of the flowing water until their horses started to whinny. "Oh, calm down," Damon told Ebony rubbing his neck. He looked into the woods and saw something move in the bushes. "Stay on your horse, Myrcella," he said as he dismounted his horse, Myrcella's face fell and her face showed that she was scared.

Damon slowly made his way near to the bushes while he drew his sword, he saw another bush move to his right and began to move towards it when a wolf crept out of the woods. It had eyes like liquid gold and a grey fur pelt. Damon could have sworn he recognised the wolf from somewhere. It stopped just out of the reach of his sword and bared its fangs, Damon could hear Myrcella gasp behind him. It then hit Damon like a stray arrow and he knelt down on one knee and held out his left hand, the one not holding his sword.

"Damon, what are you doing?" Myrcella asked him in a frightened tone behind him,

"Trust me," he told her, not taking his eyes off of the wolf, his hand still left out.

After around half a minute of waiting the beast made its way toward Damon and began to sniff his hand. _Show no fear, show no fear, show no fear,_ he kept saying to himself. In reality his heart was pounding, if he was wrong about the wolf, he could lose his hand. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the wolf put its forward and Damon began to rub the direwolf behind the ears.

"There's a good girl," he said as he dropped his sword and began to pet the beast with both of his gloved hands. "What are you doing out here? Where's your master?" The direwolf only panted in response.

"Damon! Damon, what are you doing?" Myrcella asked, from atop her mare.

"Come now, sister, do you not recognise Arya's direwolf," Damon could hear his sister's sigh of relief as she settled back into the saddle.

After a substantial amount of rubbing Nymeria's belly, the direwolf began padding the way that Damon and Myrcella had come from, back the way towards Darry. _If she was here, Arya is most likely out here as well,_ Damon surmised. He picked up his sword from the ground and sheathed it in his scabbard. Damon turned around and leapt back onto Ebony beside his sister.

" _Never_ do something like that again, Damon," before he could say anything, his sister was off riding ahead of him, he smirked to himself and rode after her.

Damon recognised where they were, they were nearing the Ruby Ford, the crossing where the Battle of the Trident took place and where the fate of his father's rebellion was really decided. Damon had committed every detail of the battle to memory, he could name every commander on both sides, how many forces there were, the movements of the troops and who had died there. A lot of it he had heard from his father's drunken boast but he learned most about the battle by talking to Barristan Selmy. Many people had died that day but their deaths had meant nothing compared to when Damon's father caved in Rhaegar Targaryen's breastplate with his warhammer, rubies falling from his chest like drops of red rain and giving the crossing its name.

Damon had wished he had known the man that his father had been during the days of the rebellion. He had been told so much of the charismatic and strong Baratheon lord who had had enough of the tyranny of the dragons and led a righteous rebellion when they had gone too far, they had stolen the women that he loved. Completely false and the only reason it was even called Robert's Rebellion was because his father was the only one out of the rebels who had ties to the Targaryens. The rebellion really began because the Mad King burnt Rickard Stark alive and his heir Brandon Stark was strapped to a foreign torture device that killed him while he tried to save his father. The stories always left out the gruelling truths behind them. They only ever told of the noble rebel trying to save his beloved or the less common tale, the honorable prince and his lady love loving one another in a world that despised them.

Damon had vague recollections of the _noble rebel_ when he was young but they were only fleeting images and Damon suspected that the passage of time made the memories seem warmer than they actually were. He remembered being lifted high into the air and flying so fast his hair lashed in the wind. He had been told he looked like his father at this age, repeatedly, by any man who thought that it would curry favour with him. _Why they would think that I would like that considering how my father ended up, I will never know._

What made it worse was that he was the only one of his father's children that looked like him, his brothers and sister all took after their mother. Damon had wished that he had been born with green eyes and golden blonde hair when he was younger, he had once prayed to the Seven, asking them to change his hair and his eyes and Joffrey had caught him. After that, Joffrey knew exactly what to do to get Damon angry and it would always be Damon's fault in their mother's eyes, never her _precious_ Joffrey's.

He was brought out of his stewing by Myrcella, "What's that?"

Damon lifted his head not even realising he had lowered it, but he heard the sound well enough, the sound of wood clattering as it floated through the woods. "I'm not sure," he said. Damon protectively rode in front of Myrcella, putting his hand on the soft leather on the hilt his sword, ready to draw it at a moment's notice.

The prince went towards in the direction of the sounds, and Myrcella had followed behind closely. As the noises grew louder and more distinct, Damon half-drew his sword, the sound of steel on the leather joined in the song of the clack of wood on wood, as well as hard heavy breathing, with a grunt every couple of seconds.

"Someone's there," Myrcella said anxiously.

"Stay behind me, Myrcella." Damon drew his sword fully from its sheath. The sound of steel on leather was replaced by the sound of steel whistling through the air. He stopped Ebony just before entering a small clearing by the Ruby Ford.

Beyond, in a clearing overlooking the river, Damon saw a boy and a young girl playing at knights. Their swords were wooden sticks, broom handles from the look of them, and they were rushing across the grass, swinging at each other lustily. The boy was years older, a head taller, and much stronger, and he was pressing the attack. The girl, a scrawny thing in soiled leathers, was dodging and managing to get her in the way of most of the boy's blows, but not all. When she tried to lunge at him, he caught her stick with his own, swept it aside, and slid his wood down hard on her fingers. She cried out and lost her weapon.

Then he heard a laugh and just beyond the boy and girl he spotted his brother riding towards them, his sword in hand and just behind him was a red haired girl he presumed was Sansa. The boy and girl spun around, the boy dropped his stick into the grass but the girl stood tall while sucking on her knuckles to take the sting out. Then Sansa shouted, "Arya?"

Damon widened his eyes at the young Stark girl, he knew she liked swords but didn't think she would run off into the middle of the woods and play knights. He still suspected her to play Monsters and Maidens and be the maiden but seeing her here now made him think that she would rather be the monster.

"Go away," Arya shouted back at Sansa. "What are you doing here? Leave us alone."

Myrcella rode up beside him to get a better luck, "What's going on?" She opened her eyes in recognition. "Are we going to to go out there?" she whispered.

Damon debated in his head for a moment but decided against entering the clearing, he tried his best to be as far from Joffrey as he could be since he rejoined the king's party and so far he had succeeded in not seeing his brother. "No, we'll stay here until Joffrey moves on, I suspect it won't be long."

Joffrey glanced from Arya to Sansa and back again. "Your sister?" Sansa nodded, blushing. Joffrey looked the boy up and down but the most distinctive part about him was his mop of red hair. "And who are you, boy?" Joffrey asked trying to say it in his most commanding voice.

"Mycah," the boy muttered. He recognized the prince and averted his eyes. "M'lord."

"He's the butcher's boy," Sansa said.

"He's my friend," Arya said sharply. "You leave him alone."

"A butcher's boy who wants to be a knight, is it?" Joffrey swung down from his mount, sword in hand. "Pick up your sword, butcher's boy," he said, his eyes bright with amusement. "Let us see how good you are."

Mycah stood there, frozen with fear. Damon sat uneasily in his saddle, ready to spur the reins at a moments notice. He could feel his stallion, as if sensing his unease prepared to gallop.

Joffrey walked toward him. "Go on, pick it up. Or do you only fight little girls?"

"She ast me to, m'lord," Mycah said. "She ast me to."

Damon believed the boy for in the small time he had known Arya and all of her actions, it sounded like something she would ask of someone. "Are you going to pick up your sword?" Joffrey asked, holding his sword threateningly.

Mycah shook his head. "It's only a stick, m'lord. It's not no sword, it's only a stick."

"And you're only a butcher's boy, and no knight." Joffrey lifted his sword and laid its point on Mycah's cheek below the eye, as the butcher's boy stood trembling. "That was my lady's sister you were hitting, do you know that?" A bright bud of blood blossomed where his sword pressed into Mycah's flesh, and a slow red line trickled down the boy's cheek.

"Stop it!" Arya screamed. She grabbed up her fallen stick.

"Arya, you stay out of this," Sansa shouted.

"I won't hurt him . . . much," Prince Joffrey told Arya, never taking his eyes off the butcher's boy.

Arya went for him and Damon spurred his reins.

Arya swung with both hands. There was a loud crack as the wood split against the back of his brother's head, and then everything happened at once. Joffrey staggered and whirled around, roaring curses. The boy ran for the trees as fast as his legs would take him. Arya swung at his brother again, but this time Joffrey caught the blow on his sword and sent her broken stick flying from her hands. The back of his head was all bloody and his eyes were on fire. Sansa was shrieking while Damon was getting closer, it would just be a few more seconds before he reached. Arya scooped up a rock and hurled it at Joffrey's head. She hit his horse instead, and the blood bay reared and went galloping off after the boy. Sansa screamed. Joffrey slashed at Arya with his sword, screaming obscenities. Arya darted back, frightened now, but Joffrey followed, hounding her toward the woods, backing her up against a tree.

Damon was close so close, just a few more seconds. His brother pushed her up against the tree with his sword pressed against Arya's chest before he could do anything else Damon rode in and batted Joffrey's sword away with Damon's own. His brother was shocked and retreated a few steps, while Damon wheeled his horse around. Sansa was crying her eyes out while Arya darted for the trees. Damon faced his brother and in his rage, Joffrey foolishly charged Damon his sword held high. Ebony reared up on his hind legs and Joffrey was too close to get out of the way. He threw his free arm up to shield himself from the horse's hooves but that did him little good as Ebony came down and crushed his arm beneath his hooves.

Joffrey crumpled to the ground, crying and cradling his broken arm. Sansa rushed to his side and gently held his head. Damon rode up and looked down at his sorry excuse for a brother being cradled in the arms of his betrothed, he pitied her for having to spend the rest of her life with Joffrey.

Jofftey made a scared whimpery sound as he looked up at Damon. "No," he said, "don't hurt me. I'll tell mother."

"You leave him alone!" Sansa screamed at him. Damon was surprised that she shouted at him. _Finally forgot to be a lady, it just took for her betrothed to be attacked_.

Damon lifted his sword and held it to Joffrey's throat, Sansa gasped and Joffrey whimpered. "The next time you lay a hand on Arya, will be the last time you have hands." Damon pulled his sword away and wheeled his horse around and galloped back to Myrcella.

After he had entered the woods again, his sister was terrified. Her eyes were wide open and her jaw dropped with a worried expression on her face. He put his hand on hers and she dragged her eyes away from Joffrey and Sansa, "Come, sister, we should sup with Tommen tonight."

Myrcella didn't respond, she just tugged at her mare's reins and went back in Darry's direction. Damon spared one last glance back at his brother, Sansa was still cradling him and Damon could still hear him whimper. He looked forward feeling refreshed.


	5. AGOT The Princess

Myrcella was looking out the window from her room in Castle Darry.

Torches infested the yard below her, men were shouting, dogs were howling and horses were neighing. Through all the chaos, Myrcella could see her brother, he was already taller than most men in the yard but atop his horse, he dwarfed everyone. Myrcella saw her brother ride out the gates another time, the same way she had seen him ride out the gates for the past four days. Myrcella waited by the window, waiting for her brother to return so that he could tuck her in like he had done when they were little, like he had done at Winterfell after the feast.

Myrcella wished they never went to Winterfell, it was a sad trip, Bran had fallen out of a window and Damon had beaten Joffrey, leaving him in a bloody mess. Damon had left Winterfell that same night, he had creeped into her room and said goodbye, he told her that he would find them on the road after she had begged him to stay. Then, Damon did find them on the road and they went to Darry together. They went to the Ruby Ford together, just her and Damon, no one else. Myrcella loved the moments where she was alone with her brother, Damon was her favourite sibling. Tommen was sweet but he could be annoying with how much he followed her about and Joffrey was mean and cruel to all of them, but Damon was sweet and kind and he protected her, he was her knight in shining armour.

Myrcella waited by the window for another hour, half a dozen times Myrcella thought she saw her brother riding through the gates and half a dozen times she was disappointed. Myrcella remembered how she felt when Damon rode back from Casterly Rock, she was always the first person to hug him, each and every time. As soon as he dismounted from his high horse she ran to her brother and jumped up into his arms. She wrapped her arms around his neck and held onto him until he hugged her back and gave her a kiss on the cheek. Myrcella made her brother tell her all of the things he had done while he was away from the capital at the feast that her father always had when Damon returned. Then, when the feast was finished, Damon would take her to bed and tell her a story. Her favourite story was the tale of Galladon of Morne, the Perfect Knight.

Ser Galladon was a perfect knight. His valor was so great the Maiden, of the Seven, fell in love with him. She gave him an enchanted sword, the Just Maid, to demonstrate her love for him. No sword could check the sword's blows, no shield could stop them. According to the legend, Galladon only unsheathed the sword three times, not once against a mortal man, for the fight would have been unfair.

Myrcella liked to think that Damon was her Galladon of Morne and that he was her perfect knight, he would protect her always. She would be the princess in the tower and Damon would come and save her from the dragon. Damon had always been her protector, he protected her from Joffrey when he was mean and he protected Tommen as well when Joffrey bullied him. Damon was her knight in shining armour, come to protect her from the evil monster.

 _He was that for Arya Stark at the riverbank._ Her brother had saved Arya from Joffrey when she was backed up against a tree, her oldest brother had Arya at swordpoint but Damon had parried Joffrey's sword, saving her life. Damon had also broken Joffrey's arm, his horse's hooves had smashed her brother's arm and when mother had seen it, she went into a blind rage, even worse than the one when Damon had beaten Joffrey. Joffrey was quiet though, until Damon left the Keep and he then ran to their father and told him that Damon had attacked him with the help of Arya Stark. Myrcella knew it was a lie but she was too scared to stand up to Joffrey in front of their father, Myrcella's courage was drawn from her black haired brother and without him here, Myrcella had not uttered a word in the past four days.

Just as she was about to leave the window, Damon rode back under the arched gate and Arya Stark was holding onto him, her hands firmly held at his stomach. Her brother jumped down from her horse with a certain grace that Myrcella had only seen when he rode a horse. He lifted the girl from the saddle and placed her on her own two feet, two Lannister footsmen came and took them away after shortly arguing with her brother.

Myrcella kept looking from the window even after her brother had been taken to what she assumed was her father, mother and brother. Lord Stark was quickly pacing the same way that Damon had been taken with Arya and soon after Sansa was being taken the same way as him and her sister. _Everybody from the river will be there,_ she suddenly realised, _Damon will call me there too._ The royal princess knew that Damon would call her, she knew it, Damon would call her so that she could tell the truth to her mother and father.

Myrcella went over to her chest and she took off her nightgown and hastily put on one of her dresses, golden Myrish lace with crimson hem and a wonderful pattern of red roses. She then put a golden shawl over her small shoulders, it fell down to her waist and covered her delicate hands. She sat back on the seat beside the window and looked back out into the darkness of the forest beyond the safe walls of Darry.

 _They're not that safe,_ she reminded herself. They were not welcome visitors in Darry. Ser Raymun Darry lived under the king's peace, but his family had fought with Rhaegar Targaryen at the Trident, and his three older brothers had died there, something that Ser Raymun had never forgotten, Damon told her this when they first arrived in Darry. With her father's men, Lord Stark's men, Damon's guards and Ser Raymun's men, there was a lot of tension in the castle. Damon had said that the sooner they left the better and Myrcella could feel that they were outstaying there welcome. _But how could we leave without Arya?_ Now that Arya was found, they would probably be on the road again soon enough.

Myrcella then heard heavy footsteps coming from the hallway towards her door and she turned just in time to see the door opened by a knight, only his silhouette was visible from the light in the hallway but Myrcella see that he was stocky. The knight walked over to where she was, out of the dark and into the light where Myrcella could see him clearly in the light. He had lost all the hair on the top of his head but he grew a fierce black beard to replace the hair that he had lost. He had a hard leathery face but he also had kind blue eyes and a warm smile on his face. He wore a blue surcoat with the black head of a dog sewn onto its breast over a suit of steel plate armour.

"Princess," the knight said, going to one knee and putting out one hand for her to take. For a man with such a rough look, his voice was incredibly soft. Myrcella placed her own hand into his own, they were so small in comparison to the knight's, her hands were delicate and his hands felt like soft leather.

"Ser Lymond," Myrcella said, getting off of her seat. Ser Lymond Westford was once a knight who served as the Master-at-Arms at Casterly Rock, or so Ser Lymond told her. Myrcella had first seen him when Damon came back for his thirteenth nameday, he was the captain of his personal guard, Myrcella thought he looked mean but she soon proved her wrong. He snuck her sweets when nobody was looking and told her jokes that would make her laugh. Myrcella thought he was in his sixties when she had first seen him and she had told him so, it made Ser Lymond laugh. "I have not aged well, my little princess," he had told her, his voice as soft as the clouds. "I am really only three-and-thirty and that's the truth, believe it or not, my little princess." She did not believe him.

Myrcella walked down the long hallway, her hand disappeared into Ser Lymond's. "I trust you know where I am bringing you, princess," Ser Lymond said, turning a corner and leading her down some stairs.

"You're taking me to my father," Myrcella declared nervously. Myrcella was never close to her father, he was always drunk or with some wench when she was near him. _Ser Lymond looks like father, in a certain light, without all the fat and less hair on the top._

"Aye, little princess," he confirmed. "Now, we'll stay at the back of the hall until your brother calls us."

Myrcella nodded, her brother was two different people. The first person was her loving brother whom was friendly and befriended people as easily and as naturally as one would breathe in the air. The other person was Prince Damon Baratheon, son of King Robert Baratheon, grandson to Lord Tywin Lannister, _he_ could make men shiver in their boots and cow them into doing what he wanted. Myrcella preferred her brother Damon to Prince Damon. Prince Damon oft at times scared her when she was little but it scared Joffrey too, thankfully she saw her brother Damon more than Prince Damon.

Ser Lymond led her out into the cold night air, she used her free hand to pull the shawl tightly around her. There were soldiers in the yard, Lannister soldiers, Baratheon men-at-arms, Stark soldiers and some of her brother's guards. Myrcella felt awkward under the gaze of the soldiers, Ser Lymond recognised this and moved in between her and the soldiers, his hand on her shoulder reassured her and made her feel safe.

The king had appropriated Ser Raymun's audience chamber, and that was where Ser Lymond led her too. The room was crowded when they walked in together. Sansa was standing close to her beside some of the Stark men. Myrcella could not see above the red cloaks of the Lannisters or the grey cloaks of the Starks, but she could hear her mother, "How dare you speak to your king in that manner!" her lady mother said, her voice full of venom like when she had spoke of Damon when he had left Winterfell.

"Quiet, woman," her lord father snapped. Myrcella could hear him shift in his seat, the room was as silent as a grave except for her father "I am sorry, Ned. I never meant to frighten the girl. It seemed best to bring her here and get the business done with quickly."

"And what business is that?" Lord Stark said with ice in his voice.

Myrcella heard her mother's heels on the floor. "You know full well, Stark. This girl of yours attacked my son. Her, her butcher's boy and mine own son. They tried to snap his arm in half." _That's not what happened,_ Myrcella wanted to shout, but even Ser Lymond's reassuring hand on her shoulder did not give her the courage to shout it.

"That's not true," Arya said loudly. "He was hurting Mycah. Damon's horse hurt his arm."

"Joff told us what happened," the queen said. "You and the butcher boy beat him with clubs while Damon nearly trampled his arm."

"That's not how it was," Arya said, her voice staying as strong and as resolute as before. _I wish I had her courage._

"Yes it is!" Prince Joffrey insisted. "They all attacked me, and she tried to crack my skull open!"

"Shut up, Joffrey!" Damon said, loudly. "Be a good boy and hide that forked tongue in your mouth!"

"Damon, you should treat your brother with the respect he deserves," her lady mother snapped.

"Then he deserves less than the dirt on my boot," Damon retorted.

"Enough!" her father roared, she heard the high seat creak, his voice thick with irritation. Silence fell. "Now, child, you will tell me what happened. Tell it all, and tell it true. It is a great crime to lie to a king. When she is done, Damon shall have his turn and then you will have your turn. Until then, both of you, keep your mouths shut."

As Arya began her story, Ser Lymond rubbed Myrcella's shoudler. They stood quietly at the back of the hall as Arya spoke. When she got to the part where she kept dodging him, her uncle Renly began to laugh. "Ser Barristan, escort my brother from the hall before he chokes."

Lord Renly stifled his laughter. "My brother is too kind. I can find the door myself." He bowed to Joffrey. "Perchance later you'll tell me how a girl the size of a wet rat managed to disarm you with a broom handle and evade you." Her uncle walked past her without even noticing her, she heard him say, "Broom handle," and guffaw once more.

Damon began his tale of what had happened on the riverbank, of how he wandered upon Arya with the butcher's boy and how he intervened when Joffrey was threatening to gut Arya. He admitted to his horse rearing and Joffrey had put up his arm in defence and he apologised for his horse having a mind of its own, when he did he said it with a sarcastic tone. His story was the same as Arya's had been.

Joffrey was pale as he began his very different version of events. When Joffrey was done talking, her father rose heavily from his seat. "What in all the seven hells am I supposed to make of this? They say one thing, he says another."

Myrcella's heart filled with dread as she thought she was about to be called forward. "Father, I was not the only one who saw what Joffrey had done at the riverbank," _Prince_ Damon said, his voice made all men in the room silent. "Ser Lymond, bring my sister here," Myrcella stepped forward hesitantly. All the soldiers moved out of her way as she walked forward. Her lady mother used her piercing green eyes and made Myrcella want to shrink up inside herself, she stood beside her father and Joffrey stood beside her, his arm hung in a silken sling. Her Lord father looked like he would have preferred to be anywhere else than on that high seat. Arya was standing beside Lord Stark, looking annoyed. Damon stood stood tall, above all others, nearly as tall as their father when he was standing up. His shoulder length black hair had turned slightly curly from lack of grooming and his eyes, his piercing blue eyes that looked like a blend of amethysts and sapphires. Ser Lymond still had his large hand on her shoulder. "Tell us what happened."

"I . . . I . . . I," she lost her voice, everyone was staring at her, she could feel tears welling up in her eyes. It was too much, it was too much. She turned and tried to run out of the room but she just ran into Damon, she sobbed into his chest and she could feel his strong arms wrap around her. She wished she was a thousand miles away, she wished she was alone with Tommen and Damon, they could live a happy life together alone. Damon could hunt food and build them a small house and he could teach Tommen how to do all that. She could make clothes for them, she wasn't great at sewing but she could make clothes if she needed to. They would live in a cabin in the woods, near the sea, it wouldn't even have to be a big cabin, just big enough for the three of them to sleep there. They would be safe in the cabin, there would be no wolves there, no lions, no stags, it would just be the three of them.

"Robert, it's clear that Myrcella doesn't remember anything," she heard her mother say over Myrcella's sobs. "I want them punished, Robert."

"Seven hells," her father swore. "Cersei, look at them. They are children. What would you have me do, whip them through the streets? Damn it, children fight. It's over. No lasting harm was done."

Damon leaned down to look at Myrcella in the face, Prince Damon was gone, her brother was back. He brushed her tears away, "Don't cry, Myrcella, it is unbecoming of a princess." His voice was kind and reassured her. She sniffled and rubbed her eyes until they were dry. "Are you alright now?" Myrcella nodded. "Now, I need you to tell them what happened, it is very important, I know you can do it, tell it all and tell it true." His voice made Myrcella feel safe and it gave her the courage to speak.

"Joffrey's lying," she said, drawing the attention of all those present, every person was looking at her, Lord Stark with his cold grey eyes, Joffrey with his sling, her tired looking father, her mother's steely gaze and her brother's hand holding onto her shoulder, giving her courage. "I . . . I was hidden away and I saw the whole thing. Joffrey was hurting the buthcer's boy with his sword and then Arya hit Joffrey with her stick, he then spun around and started to swing his sword at Arya, the butcher's boy ran off I didn't see where. Joffrey tried to hit Arya with her sword and he was shouting terrible things, then when Arya was cornered against a tree, Joffrey then held his sword to Arya's chest, I don't know if he was going to do anything else because by then Damon rode in. Damon's horse reared and Joffrey put up his arm and the hooves hit him. That's when Damon came back and we rode back to the Keep." Myrcella could still see the steel catching the shining in the sunlight, the lapping waves of the Ruby Ford. She could feel the tears welling up in her eyes again but she pushed them back down.

Her father looked at her, "Is that true?" Myrcella nodded. "Well, that business is done—"

"What!?" her mother looked furious. "Joff could have lost his arm."

Her father looked at his eldest son. "He could have. Perhaps it will teach him a lesson. Ned, see that your daughter is disciplined. I will do the same with my boys."

"Gladly, Your Grace," Lodd Eddard said with vast relief.

Damon pulled up the covers of her bed and tucked her in, he had carried her up from the great hall after it was over. Her brother had a dour look after the confrontation. The hall had emptied quite quickly after her father left, the soldiers were the first to go, there was almost a fight between a Stark and a Lannister but Ser Lymond took care of them. After them, Lord Stark left with Arya and Sansa and there was just her brothers, Myrcella and her mother then. Damon took her in his arms and carried her out of the hall. Her mother gave her a venomous glare and Myrcella felt all of her courage sapped.

"You're leaving aren't you?" Myrcella said, cutting through the silence. Her brother had the look that she had seen a thousand times, he had the same look the night he left Winterfell, he wore it whenever he was going to leave her.

"I think it's best," he said, looking over at the window in her room. "It's never good for me to be about when Joff and I are at each other's throats." He never looked her in the eye when he was leaving.

"If you're going to leave, can you tell me the story of Galladon?" She asked, Damon always told her the story the best.

He chuckled, "Fine, which tale would you like to hear?"

Myrcella knew which one she wanted. "Galladon and the Tower of Joy, that's the one I want." It was her favourite one, ever since she had heard it the first time.

He smiled, "Very well, now where did it begin again? Ah, yes, this tale begins with Galladon riding his trusted steed through the Dornish mountains. He was searching—"

"He was searching for his one true love, the Dornish Princess Doncella, the most beautiful women in the world," Myrcella interrupted.

"I won't tell you the story if you interrupt," Damon said, pointing his finger at her.

"Alright," she said, sinking further into her bed.

"Anyway, he was riding in the Dornish mountains to find his true love. She was being hidden away in the Tower of Joy by the evil witch named Malvada, Doncella's evil twin sister. Galladon arrived at the Tower of Joy to find it being guarded by a horned monster. His skin was blood crimson, his skin as cracked as the Dornish mountains, he had six glowing eyes with a forked tail as well. It took all of Galladon's might but he slew the hellish beast. He entered the Tower and rescued his beautiful Princess but as he left the Tower of Joy, Malvada revealed herself to the both of them. Galladon put himself in between Malvada and Doncella, Malvada then transformed into a raging dragon, her wings hid the sky from view. Her armour was like tenfold shields, her teeth were swords, her claws spears, the shock of her tail was a thunderbolt, her wings were a hurricane and her breath death.

"Doncella and Galladon hid in the Tower which was protected by ancient magics that could resist Malvada's fire, but not for long. Galladon then left the Tower so he could try to kill Malvada and protect Doncella from her. Galladon fought bravely but alas, he was no match for the evil Malvada. Then, the Maiden who had fallen in love with Galladon because of his valour, saved him from death and gave him a sword, called _Just Maid_. No sword could check the sword's blows, no shield could stop them. Galladon unsheathed the sword and it shone like a thousand stars. He slew Malvada and saved Doncella, they returned to Tarth and they ruled as the King and Queen of Morne but that wasn't the last tale of Galladon of Morne, the Perfect Knight."

"I love that story," Myrcella said, smiling.

"I love it too," Damon smiled back at her. "Now you go to sleep now, I'll see you in King's Landing, sweet sister."

He blew out the candle.


	6. AGOT Eddard II

_Guest:Myrcella loves Damon yes, not in the Cersei-_ _Jaime way, if that's what you're saying. The reason she describes him as her knight in shining armour was because that's exactly what he was to her. Joffrey bullied her, Cersei did nothing to stop him and Robert had never gotten off of his arse to pay his kids any attention. Damon had shielded her and defended her so as a culmination of these acts he was put on a pedestal and he surpassed legends like Symeon Star-Eyes and Serwyn the Mirror Shield in her eyes. With the continued abuse from Joffrey and the neglect of her parents she began to use Damon as a crutch, so her entire life was effected based on wether or not he was with her._

* * *

Eddard Stark rode through the towering bronze doors of the Red Keep sore, tired, hungry, and irritable. He was still ahorse, dreaming of a long hot soak, a roast fowl, and a featherbed, when the king's steward told him that Grand Maester Pycelle had convened an urgent meeting of the small council. The honour of the Hand's presence was requested as soon as it was convenient. "It will be convenient on the morrow," Ned snapped as he dismounted.

The steward bowed very low. "I shall give the councillors your regrets, my lord."

"No, damn it," Ned said. It would not do to offend the council before he had even begun. "I will see them. Just give me a few moments to change into something more presentable."

"Yes, my lord," the steward said. "We have given you Lord Arryn's former chambers in the Tower of the Hand, if it please you. I shall have your things taken there."

"My thanks," Ned said as he ripped off his riding gloves and tucked them into his belt. The rest of his household was coming through the gate behind him. Ned saw Vayon Poole, his own steward, and called out. "It seems the council has urgent need of me. See that my daughters find their bedchambers, and tell Jory to keep them there. Arya is not to go exploring." Poole bowed. Ned turned back to the royal steward. "My wagons are still straggling through the city. I shall need appropriate garments."

"It will be my great pleasure," the steward said.

And so Ned had come striding into the council chambers, bone-tired and in borrowed clothing, to find five members of the small council waiting for him.

The chamber was richly furnished. Myrish carpets covered the floor instead of rushes, and in one corner a hundred fabulous beasts cavorted in bright paints on a carved screen from the Summer Isles. The walls were hung with tapestries from Norvos and Qohor and Lys, and a pair of Valyrian sphinxes flanked the entrance, eyes of polished garnet smoldering in black marble faces.

The councillor Ned liked least, the eunuch Varys, accosted him the moment he entered. "Lord Stark, I was grievous sad to hear about your troubles on the kingsroad. We have all been visiting the sept to light candles for Prince Joffrey. I pray for his recovery." His hand left powder stains on Ned's sleeve, and he smelled as foul and sweet as flowers on a grave.

"Your gods have heard you," Ned replied, cool yet polite. "He grows stronger every day."

"Such a pity," Ned looked to the source of the noise and his eyes landed on Prince Damon, sitting back in his chair and leaning nonchalantly in it. Ned had found himself seeing the prince in a quickly deteriorating light, first in Winterfell, he beat his brother senseless and then on then on the Kingsroad, he broke his brother's arm. _But he defended Arya in doing so, just because he was raised by Tywin Lannister does not mean the boy is him._

Ned disentangled himself from the eunuch's grip and crossed the room to where Lord Renly stood by the screen, talking quietly with a short man who could only be Littlefinger. Renly had been a boy of eight when Robert won the throne, but he had grown into a man so like his brother that Ned found it disconcerting. Whenever he saw him, it was as if the years had slipped away and Robert stood before him, fresh from his victory on the Trident.

"I see you have arrived safely, Lord Stark," Renly said.

"And you as well," Ned replied. "You must forgive me, but sometimes you look the very image of your brother Robert."

"A poor copy compared to Damon," Renly said with a shrug.

"Though both are better dressed than our king," Littlefinger quipped. "Lord Renly spends more on clothing than half the ladies of the court."

It was true enough. Lord Renly was in dark green velvet, with a dozen golden stags embroidered on his doublet. A cloth-of-gold half cape was draped casually across one shoulder, fastened with an emerald brooch. "There are worse crimes," Renly said with a laugh. "The way you dress, for one."

Littlefinger ignored the jibe. He eyed Ned with a smile on his lips that bordered on insolence. "I have hoped to meet you for some years, Lord Stark. Lady Catelyn has no doubt mentioned me to you."

"She has," Ned replied with a chill in his voice. The sly arrogance of the comment rankled him. "I understand you knew my brother Brandon as well."

Renly and Damon laughed. Varys shuffled over to listen.

"Rather too well," Littlefinger said. "I still carry a token of his esteem. Did Brandon speak of me too?"

"Often, and with some heat," Ned said, hoping that would end it. He had no patience with this game they played, this dueling with words.

"I should have thought that heat ill suits you Starks," Littlefinger said. "Here in the south, they say you are all made of ice, and you melt when you ride below the Neck."

"I do not plan on melting soon, Lord Baelish. You may count on it." Ned moved to the council table and said, "Maester Pycelle, I trust you are well."

The Grand Maester smiled gently from his tall chair at the foot of the table. "Well enough for a man of my years, my lord," he replied, "yet I do tire easily, I fear." Wispy strands of white hair fringed the broad bald dome of his forehead above a kindly face. His maester's collar was no simple metal choker such as Luwin wore, but two dozen heavy chains wound together into a ponderous metal necklace that covered him from throat to breast. The links were forged of every metal known to man: black iron and red gold, bright copper and dull lead, steel and tin and pale silver, brass and bronze and platinum. Garnets and amethysts and black pearls adorned the metalwork, and here and there an emerald or ruby. "Perhaps we might begin soon," the Grand Maester said, hands knitting together atop his broad stomach. "I fear I shall fall asleep if we wait much longer."

"As you will." Ned then found himself looking down at Damon in his chair, the way he leaned in it made him look like he had laid all the Lannister arrogance to bear. "Prince Damon, your father had asked after you when we saw that you had left."

"I apologise for taking my brisk leave of you, Lord Stark but whenever my brother and I stay around one another, things start to become . . . tense," Damon said, looking up at Ned. In that moment Ned thought he was looking at a ghost of Robert when they were boys, the self-assurance and the confidence of Damon just made him more like his father.

Ned left the youth and searched for his own chair. The king's seat sat empty at the head of the table, the crowned stag of Baratheon embroidered in gold thread on its pillows. Ned took the chair beside it, as the right hand of his king. "My lords," he said formally, "I am sorry to have kept you waiting."

"You are the King's Hand," Varys said. "We serve at your pleasure, Lord Stark."

As the others took their accustomed seats, it struck Eddard Stark forcefully that he did not belong here, in this room, with these men. He remembered what Robert had told him in the crypts below Winterfell. _I am surrounded by flatterers and fools,_ the king had insisted. Ned looked down the council table and wondered which were the flatterers and which the fools. He thought he knew already. "We are but six," he pointed out.

"Lord Stannis took himself to Dragonstone not long after the king went north, Prince Damon has very nobly heeded his uncle's instruction and has taken Lord Stannis' place until he returns," Varys said, "and our gallant Ser Barristan no doubt rides beside the king as he makes his way through the city, as befits the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard."

"Perhaps we had best wait for Ser Barristan and the king to join us," Ned suggested.

Damon Baratheon scoffed loudly that it drew everyone's attention. "If we wait for my royal father to come and grace us with his presence, winter will have come and gone and come back again."

Ned thought that that might be for the best, when he had left Robert last time they did not part on good terms. It was after the incident on the Kingsroad where Joffrey's true character was revealed, where he threatened to kill his baby girl and nearly succeeded. He had found his king in his tent with an empty goblet in one hand and a pitcher in the other.

"Ned!" his king shouted as he entered the tent. "Sit your arse on the seat!" Robert kicked the chair opposite of him towards Ned but it tumbled over on the edge of a carpet. He picked up the seat and sat himself at the small round table where Robert was sat. His friend was flushed with drink but didn't look as drunk as he should.

Robert poured a glass of wine and offered it to him. Ned politely declined but his friend wouldn't take no for an answer. "Drink, your king commands you," he ordered.

Ned took and downed it in one, he needed the courage for what he was about to say. Robert laughed, "There's the Ned I remember! Drinking wine as fast as it was poured."

Ned offered a wane smile. "If I recall correctly, I never drank half as much as you."

"Few did or could," Robert guffawed.

"Robert, I need to speak to you about something," Ned confessed, staring intently at his empty glass in his hands.

His king sighed. "I've been expecting this ever since Darry." He placed the pitcher on the table and his glass beside it before turning back to Ned. "Look, Ned, I know Joffrey should never have threatened your girl, it was wrong of him and he has learned his lesson I assure you." Ned silently fumed. _It was wrong of him?_ The only reason Ned had not beaten Joffrey bloody was because he was the Crown Prince and his best friend's eldest son and even then his knuckles had turned white.

"Robert, I am sure he has but with what I have seen of Joffrey," Ned hesitated, "I do not believe he is fit for Sansa."

"What?" Robert bellowed, louder than the sound of a battlefield. "He is my son and heir and he is not good enough for your daughter?" _He is your son and heir but he held my daughter at the point of his blade._

"No, I never said he wasn't good enough," although he did believe that, "I just don't believe that this is the right match between them," he explained. "He threatened Arya because he could and if he married Sansa, he could do anything to her, I will not have my daughter live in fear for her safety her entire life."

"Do you not want Sansa to marry Joffrey then? Is that it?" Robert probed. "Fine then, how about a betrothal between Arya and Damon? I'll convince the old man on the Rock to allow it."

He was not understanding what Ned was trying to say. "No, Robert, I'm saying that I do not any woman of House Stark betrothed to a man of House Baratheon! In most cases, threatening a Lord Paramount's daughter would be a death sentence but for the love I bear you, I will allow you to punish your son as you see fit only as long as his betrothal to Sansa is broken and he stays far away from my daughters." Ned spoke in a voice that brokered no argument but the king seemed to be exempt from that.

"Why not? I thought you wanted this!"

"You were the one who wanted this, I have only ever wanted my daughters to be happy and I do not believe any of them would be happy with your sons." Ned stood up from the chair while Robert's face was as red as a tomato. "My king."

Ned left the tent behind leaving Robert shouting curses at the top of his lungs for everyone in the camp to hear. The Starks left first thing in the morning, leaving the Baratheons and Lannisters behind them, putting some space between them so that tempers could cool. Ned Stark had been dreading his first small council meeting because he assumed that it would be the first time he his king again but it was not so as a Varys explained.

"Our good King Robert has many cares," Varys said. "He entrusts some small matters to us, to lighten his load."

"What Lord Varys means is that all this business of coin and crops and justice bores my royal brother to tears," Lord Renly said, "so it falls to us to govern the realm. He does send us a command from time to time." He drew a tightly rolled paper from his sleeve and laid it on the table. "This morning he commanded me to ride ahead with all haste and ask Grand Maester Pycelle to convene this council at once. He has an urgent task for us."

Littlefinger smiled and handed the paper to Ned. It bore the royal seal. Ned broke the wax with his thumb and flattened the letter to consider the king's urgent command, reading the words with mounting disbelief. _Was there no end to Robert's folly? And to do it just after he had just said he would punish his son for his violence._ "Gods be good," he swore.

"What Lord Eddard means to say," Lord Renly announced, "is that His Grace instructs us to stage a great tournament in honor of Prince Damon's coming of age."

The prince then sat up straighter in his chair. "I find myself enjoying that royal decree," Damon smiled.

"How much?" asked Littlefinger, mildly.

Ned read the answer off the letter. "Forty thousand golden dragons to the champion. Twenty thousand to the man who comes second, another twenty to the winner of the melee, and ten thousand to the victor of the archery competition."

"Ninety thousand gold pieces," Littlefinger sighed. "And we must not neglect the other costs. Robert will want a prodigious feast. That means cooks, carpenters, serving girls, singers, jugglers, fools . . . "

"Fools we have in plenty," Lord Renly said.

Grand Maester Pycelle looked to Littlefinger and asked, "Will the treasury bear the expense?"

"What treasury is that?" Littlefinger replied with a twist of his mouth. "Spare me the foolishness, Maester. You know as well as I that the treasury has been empty for years. I shall have to borrow the money. No doubt the Lannisters will be accommodating. We owe Lord Tywin some three million dragons at present, what does another hundred thousand matter?"

Ned was stunned. "Are you claiming that the Crown is three million gold pieces in debt?" Robert had said it was only two million and that the debt would be paid when Damon became a Lannister.

"The Crown is more than six million gold pieces in debt, Lord Stark. The Lannisters are the biggest part of it, but we have also borrowed from Lord Tyrell, the Iron Bank of Braavos, and several Tyroshi trading cartels. Of late I've had to turn to the Faith. The High Septon haggles worse than a Dornish fishmonger."

Ned was aghast. "Aerys Targaryen left a treasury flowing with gold. How could you let this happen?"

Littlefinger gave a shrug. "The master of coin finds the money. The king and the Hand spend it."

"I will not believe that Jon Arryn allowed Robert to beggar the realm," Ned said hotly.

Grand Maester Pycelle shook his great bald head, his chains clinking softly. "Lord Arryn was a prudent man, but I fear that His Grace does not always listen to wise counsel."

"His Grace does love his tournaments and feasts," Damon Baratheon said, "and he detests what he calls 'counting coppers.' "

"I will speak with His Grace," Ned said. "This tourney is an extravagance the realm cannot afford. Meaning no offence, my prince." The prince waved away his comment.

"Speak to him as you will," Lord Renly said, "we had still best make our plans."

"Another day," Ned said. Perhaps too sharply, from the looks they gave him. He would have to remember that he was no longer in Winterfell, where only the king stood higher; here, he was but first among equals. "Forgive me, my lords," he said in a softer tone. "I am tired. Let us call a halt for today and resume when we are fresher." He did not ask for their consent, but stood abruptly, nodded at them all, and made for the door.

Outside, wagons and riders were still pouring through the castle gates, and the yard was a chaos of mud and horseflesh and shouting men. The king had not yet arrived, he was told. Since the ugliness on the Trident, the Starks and their household had ridden well ahead of the main column, the better to separate themselves from the Lannisters and the growing tension. Robert had hardly been seen; the talk was he was traveling in the huge wheelhouse, drunk as often as not. If so, he might be hours behind, but he would still be here too soon for Ned's liking. He had only to look at Sansa's face to feel the rage twisting inside him once again. The last fortnight of their journey had been a misery. Sansa blamed Arya for what happened to the prince and Arya was lost when she heard what had happened to the butcher's boy. Sansa cried herself to sleep for her broken betrothal, Arya brooded silently all day long, and Eddard Stark dreamed of a frozen hell reserved for the Starks of Winterfell.


	7. AGOT Damon III

"It's the prince's nameday tourney that's the cause of all the trouble, my lords," the commander of the city watch complained to the king's council. "Knights have been arriving from all over the realm, and for every knight we get two freeriders, three craftsmen, six men-at-arms, a dozen merchants, two dozen whores, and more thieves than I dare guess. This cursed heat had half the city in a fever to start, and now with all these visitors . . . last night we had a drowning, a tavern riot, three knife fights, a rape, two fires, robberies beyond count, and a drunken horse race down the Street of the Sisters. The night before a woman's head was found in the Great Sept, floating in the rainbow pool. No one seems to know how it got there or who it belongs to."

"How dreadful," Varys said with a shudder.

Lord Renly Baratheon was less sympathetic. "If you cannot keep the king's peace, Janos, perhaps the City Watch should be commanded by someone who can."

Damon looked to his uncle, "Excellent suggestion, lord uncle. Perhaps a man younger and born of some noble stock, someone from the King's own court, with all the knights in King's Landing, surely one of them could keep the peace better than yourself, Slynt."

Stout, jowly Janos Slynt puffed himself up like an angry frog, his bald pate reddening. "Aegon the Dragon himself could not keep the peace, my lords."

"We're not asking you to act as Aegon the Conqueror, just to make sure that you keep the king's peace," Damon told the son of a butcher. "I know of many knights, some of whom are in my service, that could find ways to make sure the smallfolk stay within the boundaries of the king's law. And if they had forgotten what it was, the men would remind them what happens when you break the law."

The commander puffed up his cheeks and put out his chest. "That being said, my lord, I still need more men."

"How many?" the Hand asked, leaning forward. As always, Damon's father had neglected to sit on the small council and it fell to his Hand of the King.

"As many as can be gotten, Lord Hand." Damon snorted, if it was up to Damon they should have just rid themselves of Janos' incompetence and gotten a proper commander, this one was as corrupt as the High Septon.

"Hire fifty new men," Ned told him. "Lord Baelish will see that you get the coin."

"I will?" Littlefinger said.

"You will. You found forty thousand golden dragons for a champion's purse, surely you can scrape together a few coppers to keep the king's peace." Lord Eddard turned back to Janos Slynt. "I will also give you twenty good swords from my own household guard, to serve with the Watch until the crowds have left."

"All thanks, Lord Hand," Slynt said, bowing. "I promise you, they shall be put to good use."

When the Commander had taken his leave, Eddard Stark turned to the rest of the council. "The sooner this folly is done with, the better I shall like it."

"Are you saying my coming of age tourney is folly, Lord Eddard?" Damon said, feigning insult.

"No, my prince," Lord Eddard said, sounding flustered. "It is just that—"

"Peace, Lord Eddard, a simple joke," Damon said, he took a sip from his goblet of wine. The Hand did not look amused.

"The realm prospers from such events, my lord," Grand Maester Pycelle said. "They bring the great the chance of glory, and the lowly a respite from their woes."

"And put coins in many a pocket," Littlefinger added. "Every inn in the city is full, and the whores are walking bowlegged and jingling with each step."

Lord Renly laughed. "We're fortunate my brother Stannis is not with us. Remember the time he proposed to outlaw brothels? The king asked him if perhaps he'd like to outlaw eating, shitting, and breathing while he was at it. If truth be told, I ofttimes wonder how Stannis ever got that ugly daughter of his. He goes to his marriage bed like a man marching to a battlefield, with a grim look in his eyes and a determination to do his duty." Damon nearly shouted at his uncle for speaking of Shireen in such a way, she was a sweet girl who had unfortunately been afflicted with greyscale, but Damon retained his silence, resorting to balling his fists instead.

The Hand and Damon were the only ones who had not joined the laughter. "I wonder about your brother Stannis as well. I wonder when he intends to end his visit to Dragonstone and resume his seat on this council." Lord Eddard asked.

"My lord uncle said that some issues had arisen on Dragonstone he had to deal with, he did not say when he was going to return to us here," Damon told Lord Eddard. The man sighed and ran his hand through his hair

"I think that is everything for today, my lords," Ned said, rising. "Until the morrow."

Damon was the first to get up and walk out of the small council chambers and outside of the room he found Lucion sitting down in a crimson leather doublet, his sword tied to his waist. Lucion smiled at Damon and stood up beside him. "Are the horses ready?" Damon asked the golden haired knight.

Lucion nodded, "Ebony is saddled and ready for whenever you wish to leave."

Ebony, Damon's black destrier was saddled and waiting in the yard, being held by Ser Lymond Westford, Damon's captain of his personal guard. The captain had lost all of his hair from the top of his head, which made him look much older than his actual age, but he had grown a fierce black beard to compensate for it. Ser Lymond and Lucion mounted their own coursers and rode with him as they left the yard. Damon passed beneath the King's Gate into the stink of the city, his crimson cloak streaming from his shoulders. Damon was sweating in the heat, at times like this Damon missed the cool refreshing waters of the Sunset Sea off the cliffs of Casterly Rock, where he would have spent an entire day basking in the sun while swimming in the cool waters.

The Street of Steel began at the market square beside the River Gate, as it was named on maps, or the Mud Gate, as it was commonly called. A mummer on stilts was striding through the throngs like some great insect, with a horde of barefoot children trailing behind him, hooting. Elsewhere, two ragged boys no older than Tommen were dueling with sticks, to the loud encouragement of some and the furious curses of others. An old woman ended the contest by leaning out of her window and emptying a bucket of slops on the heads of the combatants. In the shadow of the wall, farmers stood beside their wagons, bellowing out, "Apples, the best apples, cheap at twice the price," and "Blood melons, sweet as honey," and "Turnips, onions, roots, here you go here, here you go, turnips, onions, roots, here you go here."

The Mud Gate was open, and a squad of City Watchmen stood under the portcullis in their golden cloaks, leaning on spears. A hedge knight rode in with a checkered cloak billowing in the wind. _Where is the_ _two freeriders, the three craftsmen, the six men-at-arms, the dozen merchants, the two dozen whores and the countless amount of thieves, Slynt,_ Damon thought to himself.

Damon turned off the square where the Street of Steel began and followed its winding path up a long hill, past blacksmiths working at open forges, freeriders haggling over mail shirts, and grizzled ironmongers selling old blades and razors from their wagons. The farther they climbed, the larger the buildings grew. The man Damon wanted was all the way at the top of the hill, in a huge house of timber and plaster whose upper stories loomed over the narrow street. The double doors showed a hunting scene carved in ebony and weirwood. A pair of stone knights stood sentry at the entrance, armored in fanciful suits of polished red steel that transformed them into griffin and unicorn. Damon left Ebony and the courser's with Ser Lymond as they went inside of the shop. He shouldered his way inside to the shop.

The slim young serving girl took quick note of the sigil on Damon's doublet, and the master came hurrying out, and bows. "Wine for the Prince," he told the girl, gesturing Damon to a couch. "It's a pleasure to see you again, my prince, please, please, put yourself at ease." He wore a black velvet coat with hammers embroidered on the sleeves in silver thread, Around his neck was a heavy silver chain and a sapphire as large as a pigeon's egg. "I can't tell you how happy I am to see you again, my prince." he said as he filled two matching silver goblets. "I was honoured by your last visit to my shop and trust me, my craftsmanship has no equal anywhere in the Seven Kingdoms, I promise you. Any village smith can hammer out a shirt of mail; my work is art."

Damon took a sip of his wine and said, "Master Mott, when I last saw you, I asked you to forge me a suit of armour as well as a sword to match it. I asked you to have it done before my nameday celebration and I have come here to make sure you have it finished and to pay you if it is done."

"Of course, my prince," Mott bowed, "if you would just follow me into the back, I can show you your arms and armour." Damon got up and followed the master smith into the back of his shop. Damon looked at the boys working at the forges and Damon instantly recognised one of them, he had thick, black hair and even though Damon couldn't see them, he knew the boy had blue eyes. He was working on a bull's head helmet at an anvil, Damon didn't look too long at the black haired and he followed Master Mott even further into his shop.

The Qohorik smith opened up a door and Damon halted his breath. He turned to the master smith who was smiling with glee, he then looked back at the suit of armour that was mounted on an armour rack for display. The suit of plate armour was as dark as Damon's hair, underneath the plate armour was a a shirt of golden chainmail. The lobstered pauldrons and gauntlets were both chased with gold. The chest plate had a pair of golden antlers etched onto it like rivers of gold in a starless midnight sky. The visored helm was closed, a pair of iron antlers erupted at the side of the greathelm and they were all capped with gold. A rich black cloak trimmed in black fur around the edges and pinned with a black brooch in the shape of a roaring lion's head. Damon approached the suit of armour and marvelled in it's glory. He would be the envy of the tourney in this armour, it was fit for a god much less a prince.

"Master Mott, this is surely one of your finer works," Damon pointed out but the Qohorik smith smiled like he had already known that he would get this reaction.

"I thank you, Your Grace. You wouldn't be wrong in naming it one of my finest pieces," he smiled.

"It looks fearsome," Lucion pointed out, admiring the armour. Damon agreed with his friend, the iron antlers made the armour look like it belonged to a demon from the Seven Hells. _Or a Trident,_ Damon thought sourly.

"That is not all, my prince," Tobho then turned around, lifted up a long box and opened it. Inside was a hand and a half sword, Damon grabbed the sword by the crimson leather hilt and gave it a few practice swings. The weight was just right for Damon and the sword fit his hand perfectly. The pommel was an antlered lion's head with onyx gemstones in its eyes and it was biting down on a large ruby. There were three fullers incised to the blade to reduce the weight of the blade and it had a dark grey tint to the blade, giving it a smoky appearance. Damon was even more pleased with the sword than the armour, he didn't name his weapons but this piece was so awe-inspiring that he might be forced to.

"I slaved over the armour for a month and the sword half as long," Mott said while Damon admired his sword. "I forged armour for your lord uncle, the Knight of Flowers and a half a hundred other knights, but I have never been more proud than the piece I give you now."

Damon swung the sword from side to side, a thrust, a lunge and an overhead strike. The blade seemed to sing as it cut through the air, the dark blade lit up from the roaring fires from the forges. The smith handed a scabbard to Damon, he sheathed the bastard sword and turned to the smith. "I shall take the sword with me now and send a wagon to collect the armour later on." Damon placed a heavy pouch of gold dragons into the smith's hands, "The rest will come with the wagon later on."

Damon left Mott's shop and Ser Lymond brought their horses to them, he caught sight of Lord Stark and two of his men trotting up the hill toward him. "Good afternoon, Lord Stark," Damon called out to him, "I trust you are keeping well."

Eddard's eyes narrowed at the sight of Damon, "As well as can be in this city, Prince Damon."

Damon nodded, "And your daughters?"

Eddard scowled at the young prince, Damon didn't think he was going to tell him but the Hand of the King relented, "They are well. Sansa is attending her lessons and Arya is with her dancing master." He could understand Stark's hesitance to talk about his daughters with a Baratheon. Ever since his idiotic brother nearly killed Arya Stark, the Red Keep was like a barrel of wildfire just waiting for a match to set it ablaze.

Damon chuckled, "Dancing master? Arya didn't seem the type of being overly fond of dancing." Damon still remembered the girl in soiled leathers on the riverbank, trading blows with wooden broom handles with a butcher's boy. He tried to imagine that same girl learning how to dance, the image was laughable.

The Lord of Winterfell dismounted his horse, "Nor did I, but Arya does tend to surprise everyone and anyone."

Damon looked the Warden of the North up and down, he seemed distracted to Damon, "So, have you come to have some new armour made for the tourney, my lord?" he gestured to Mott's shop.

Lord Eddard frowned, "No, I have not come for some new armour, my prince."

Damon looked at him with a furrowed brow, "You are taking part in the tourney?"

Lord Eddard sighed, "I would rather there be no tourney but your father was adamant that we have a grand tourney to celebrate your coming of age."

Damon nodded, he partly agreed with Lord Stark, the realm was heavily in debt and this was no time to be spending lavishly on extravagant tourneys, but Damon's selfish nature made Damon want to have one of the biggest tourney's ever to celebrate his coming of age, one that would rival the Tourney at Harrenhal. "So, what has brought you to Master Mott's shop?"

Eddard scowled at him, his eyes becoming narrow slits of a cold grey, "Hand's business."

"Perhaps I could wait for you, I am going to inspect the ships remaining in the bay, we could examine them together." Damon could tell from Eddard's face he wasn't going to accept.

"No, my prince," said the Hand courteously, "you are probably much more suited to the task than I." Damon wasn't sure, Lord Stark probably had the same amount of knowledge about ships that Damon had but he wasn't going to insist that he come. There was no point forcing a man, that disliked him for some reason, to accompany him.

Damon climbed up onto Ebony, Ser Lymond and Lucion jumped onto their coursers, "Very well, Lord Stark, I shan't hold you up any longer." The Hand nodded and Damon began to canter down the hill, Ebony's hooves being drowned out by traders selling their goods.

Damon reached the bottom of the hill and he found the Lightning Lord, Beric Dondarrion and his squire, Lord Edric Dayne. Damon had befriended the Lightning Lord and his squire at Highgarden, Edric had exchanged stories with Damon about Arthur Dayne, one of Damon's favourite knights, even though he never met him, Ser Barristan had spoken of him in glowing terms which made Damon like the famed Kingsguard. After having a brief exchange, Damon left the two of them to continue on while he rode toward the wharf.

Damon stood on the deck of _King Robert's Hammer,_ a triple decked warship with four hundred oarsmen and the flagship of the Royal Fleet. Damon stood at the edge of the ship, looking at all of the other ships that were part of the Royal Fleet, _Seaswift_ was the closest to Damon, its sails furled and it was tied to the wharf. Further from the wharf was _Lionstar_ and _Lady Lyanna._ Damon turned to the chief oarsmen on _King Robert's Hammer_ and said, "Did my uncle Stannis say anything about why he was going to Dragonstone?" he asked the oarsmen.

"None a' all, m'lord," he said, "all Lord Stannis said was to do wha'ever you tol' us to do." The chief oarsmen was a short man with arms as thick as tree trunks and a hard leathery face with a scraggly beard, his bald head was shiny and reflected the sun into Damon's eyes.

Damon turned back and looked out onto the bay. Dozens of ships were sailing into the wharf, some were just some small trading boats, others were great cogs with a couple hundred men aboard. His uncle had taken most of the ships to Dragonstone when he departed King's Landing. Thankfully, Damon didn't need to do anything difficult, his uncle had left what remained of the Royal Fleet in pristine condition, each ship didn't need any new orders and there was no trouble in the Narrow Sea that Damon had to worry about, no pirates had been seen and any smugglers that had been caught had been taken to the dungeons.

He wondered what it would be like to spend months sailing on a wide open sea. Waking up every day hearing the groaning of the ship as it tackled each wave and spending entire days in the sun. Damon had never been on a ship for longer than a day, he usually took the roads when he was travelling between the kingdoms and he was only on a boat for that long because his uncle Renly thought it would be fun for Damon and him to sail to the Sapphire Isle of Tarth from Shipbreaker Bay on his coming of age tour. Mother had been fuming with rage and even his father had been livid with his uncle for risking his son's life on Shipbreaker Bay. Damon did not know at the time because he was young but his paternal grandparents had both died sailing into Shipbreaker Bay during a storm. The prince took no side in that argument and instead silently watched as his father, mother and his uncle Stannis had found a common cause by shouting at Renly.

Despite knowing the danger he had been in, Damon had never been angry with his uncle because he had enjoyed his time at Tarth and to him, it had balanced the risk of the venture.

While on Tarth, he had met the Evenstar's heir, an ungainly girl who had been a number of years older than him. She had been extremely tall, taller than his uncle Renly, she had blonde hair like straw, a freckled face, broad and coarse features, a wide mouth and swollen lips. She was the ugliest lady that he had ever seen, uglier than his nanny had been and she had a mole on her chin.

But when he saw that she was crying and other men were laughing at her, Damon began to walk over to her. He wasn't sure why, he had never talked to her before but he understood what it was like to be bullied, his brother made sure of that. She was wearing a blue dress like the colour of her eyes, the only pretty thing about her. Damon stood a few feet from her when she looked up at him.

"What's wrong?" Damon innocently asked.

"Nothing," she choked as she rubbed some snot from her nose. _Mother wouldn't like me talking to you._ But that didn't stop Damon from pulling a chair up beside her which he hopped on, letting his legs swing back and forth. He wondered if she knew who he was, he wasn't wearing any lions or stags on his tunic, it was just a plain crimson tunic.

"Is it because of those men who are laughing at you?" Damon pointed to the group at the other side of the hall who were laughing hysterically. She nodded. "What did they say?" She didn't answer.

"I used to cry a lot when my brother called me names and hit me when I was younger," Damon revealed. "I don't cry anymore, my grandfather said that it wasn't something a strong man should do. I suppose you can cry since you're a woman but . . ."

She started to cry even more then and Damon didn't know what to do. He edged off his seat and walked over to his uncle who was sharing a glass of Dornish red with Loras Tyrell, his new squire. Damon didn't like him, he looking like a girl. Damon had told Loras when they first met and Ser Lymond had cuffed him on the back of the head for forgetting his manners. _But it's the truth,_ Damon had thought. He tugged at his uncle's tunic and he smiled at Damon. He ordered his uncle to dance with the crying girl, every girl _loved_ to dance with his uncle and some men even.

When his uncle and the girl were dancing in the centre of the hall, everyone stopped to watch. Damon wasn't much of a dancer, he preferred to fight with swords but he could dance better than the girl. She was clumsy and awkward, she always stood on her uncle's toes but he didn't mind. Renly just laughed it off and soon the girl stopped crying and started laughing as well.

Damon saw the group who had been laughing at the girl was quiet now and he walked over to them to give them a tongue lashing like his mother would give him. They weren't laughing now, they were scowling sullenly at the girl's enjoyment.

"You shouldn't treat people like that," Damon told the group when Renly led the girl into a new dance.

"Oh? And why shouldn't I little man?" The one with red hair came to the forefront of the group with his hands on his hips and his chest puffed out. _He doesn't know who I am,_ Damon realised. He was going to have some fun with this one.

"Duh, because it's mean." Damon couldn't believe he was scolding an adult for being rude, it was always the other way round. "And because I said so.

They all laughed at him and the red-haired one was the loudest out of them all. "Run off boy before you get yourself in a fight," he told Damon as he rubbed a tear from his eye.

It was Damon's turn to put his hands on his hips and puff his chest out. "I would say the same thing to you, ser, unless you want to deal with my uncle, your Lord Paramount, or my father the king but don't worry, I won't talk to my grandfather, I'm not _that_ cruel." He laughed internally when he saw the faces of the knights fall as they finally understood who he was.

"A thousand pardons," muttered the red-haired one, bowing his head low in respect.

Damon upturned his nose and sniffed. "Run away before I order your tongue ripped out for threatening a Prince of the Blood, I'm pretty sure I can do that." Mother _always_ threatened to rip out Damon's tongue when he was rude but Damon preferred to call it honesty.

The prince went to bed soon after that and in the morning he sailed back to Storm's End from Tarth. He would always remember the sapphire waters that the ship sailed through like a knife through butter. Those waters were nothing like the murky green water of Blackwater Bay, corrupted by the endless sewage and filth pummelled into it.

"If I wanted the Royal Fleet to sail, would you?" Damon asked the oarsmen.

"O' course, m'lord," he said. "As Master o' Ships, you can do wha' you like with the Royal Flee'. And if you were to come with us, we'd find ye a nice big cabin on _Rob's Hammer_."

Damon smiled and said his farewell to the chief oarsmen, he disembarked the massive warship and he met with Lucion and Lymond on the wharf. Lucion had been talking to a comely lass, just older than Damon and he was quite upset at being pulled away from the girl. He mounted up and he began to travel back up to the Red Keep.

Damon arrived at the Red Keep while the sun was still high in the sky, its golden rays beating down on him like a silver steel sword causing him to have a sweat upon his brow. The prince dismounted his horse, a stable boy came running and took the reins from his hands. He strode across the courtyard towards the Great Hall, where he meant to find his younger brother Tommen in his lessons with the Grand Maester. Damon had promised his brother that he would teach him to joust before the tourney.

When the great oak-and-bronze doors opened for Damon, Lucion and Lymond, the first thing he was greeted by was a page with a golden rose. _Not him,_ Damon thought as he nodded to the page. Further down the hall was more Tyrells, each one of them was wearing the rose of Highgarden. The Hall was nearly empty except for a few noblemen and gossiping ladies. Damon thought he could get away without talking to them but his uncle, unsurprisingly, was among their number and spotted him.

"Damon!" his uncle called, waving him over. Damon closed his eyes, _I could just keep walking and pretend I didn't hear him,_ but Damon's feet had betrayed him and he stopped moving.

He turned to his uncle and smiled, "Lord Renly." Damon spotted the Knight of Flowers coming to stand beside his uncle. "Ser Loras," the prince nodded to him.

"Prince Damon, I hope to see you again in the joust, our last bout was so enjoyable," Loras smirked. Damon forced a smile, he remembered his last bout with the Knight of Flowers well, it was at the tourney at Highgarden and Damon had reached the final, his opponent had been the Knight of Flowers. Damon had tilted seven times against Loras but was finally unhorsed in the eighth tilt. He could remember it like it was yesterday, he could hear the roar of the crowd, a thousand voices singing in unison and the thunder of horses hooves sounded like a hundred smiths hammering their anvils. The sun had been low in the sky by the time of the final tilt, Damon had been riding into it and when he lowered his lance to strike the Knight of Flowers, the sun had blinded his vision and he completely missed Ser Loras. Damon had been knocked off of his horse, injured, and Loras was named the champion. _All because of a stupid sunset._

"Indeed," Damon nodded, "now, if you will excuse me, my lords."

Damon began to walk around the group before Margaery stepped in his way, "Not even going to say hello to me?" she smiled sweetly. The Rose of Highgarden's thick, softly curling brown hair cascaded down bare shoulders of pale and smooth unblemished skin. Her green dress with golden hem showed her slender and womanly figure.

"Lady Margaery," Damon smiled. Despite what Damon felt about Loras, he had considered Margaery a good friend from his time in Highgarden. The Knight of Flowers and his sister both shared a similar appearance with each other, Loras was handsome and Margaery was beautiful.

Margaery curtsied, "My Prince, it is a pleasure to see you again." Her technique was flawless as ever and she looked as innocent as the Maiden above. She was the 'perfect lady' in appearance but she wasn't some doe eyed lady that followed knights like a moth to a flame. No, she was different, she was much too shrewd for that, something which Damon had not anticipated when he first met her. He had thought her to be just another lady and had been less than polite to her at a feast and she responded with a counter and showed Damon up. He had conceded defeat and they had become friends after that, playing cyvasse with each other whenever they had the chance.

"And you, my lady," he kissed her hand courteously. "We must have a game of cyvasse before the tournament is over and you return to Highgarden."

"Of course, my prince," she said sweetly. "It would be my pleasure."

"My lady," he bowed and made to leave but Margaery called him back.

Tommen was excited to be free of his lessons with the old toad that called himself Grand Maester. He was jumping up and down, buzzing with excitement and a large smile on his face. He had changed into more comfortable clothing for training like Damon, who had put on a studded leather tunic. By the time they had reached the yard, the training dummies had already been set up in an area cornered off from everyone else, fences were put up that surrounded the dummies.

Damon left Tommen to train with Ser Aron while he went to train for the upcoming joust. His snow white courser was brought out of the stables as well as his old armour and lances. He was helped into his armour and soon enough he was mounting the white mare and he was riding up and down the training list waiting for his opponent to arrive. While he was waiting, Lucion set up a training dummy for Damon to ride against. He kicked his mare into action and she galloped down the list and the prince broke his lance on the dummies bucket-covered head. A stable boy brought out another lance and handed it to Damon, by the time he reached the end of the list, Lucion had prepared the training dummy again. Once again, Damon broke into a gallop and once again, he broke his lance on the bucket on the dummies head.

By the time Damon reached the end of the list and another lance was given to him, the dummy had been taken away and had been replaced by a live person. From the white armour with the golden sunburst crest, Damon could tell he was facing Ser Meryn Trant. The droopy eyed Kingsguard was not the best rider or the best swordsmen of the Kingsguard but he was better than some of the fools that were serving in the prestigious order.

Damon sat up straight on his mare and waited for the signal to ride. A boy came out with a red flag and stood in the centre of the lists and raised the flag high into the air. Damon prepared to whip the reins on his courser for when the boy brought his flag down. He held his grip on his lance tighter than before, he calmed his breathing and he stopped listening to all of the noise in the courtyard. He stopped hearing the grunts of knights practicing their swordplay, he stopped hearing the sound of Tommen's wooden sword slam into the dummy, he stopped hearing Ser Aron's shouting, all he could hear was his own breath and all he saw was the red of the flag. The boy brought it down and Damon whipped on the reins, his courser broke into a gallop and Ser Meryn mirrored him. Damon couched his lance and as they got closer, Ser Meryn slightly lowered his shield and Damon knew where he was striking. He kept steady on his horse, moving with his courser as she galloped across the list. Damon eyed the golden sunburst on the top of Meryn's helmet and a wave of rage overcame him as he neared the white knight. He held his lance steady and his lance struck true, he yelled as the lance crashed against the golden sunburst. The droopy eyed knight flew from his horse, landed on the dirt, his foot caught in his horse's stirrup. When his foot finally came free, he moved onto his back and lay prone on the ground. Damon thought he might have been dead until Ser Meryn pushed away a stable boy who tried to help him.

Seeing the knight rolling on the ground gave Damon confidence, he would win this tourney, and he would wipe the smug smirk off of Loras Tyrell's face.


	8. AGOT Sansa I

_Author's note:It was brought to my attention that Ned was a bit OOC with the whole Joffrey incident so I went back and rewrote some stuff which broke of Joffrey and Sansa's betrothal. I also changed the fact that Joffrey was literally an inch from killing Arya and instead held her at swordpoint, still extreme but not as terrible as being a split second away from killing her._

 _sandmanwake:The fact that Joffrey wasn't sent to the Wall might irk you but for this story to work, he needs to remain as the Crown Prince. I do hope that you'll continue to read but I understand if this story ain't your cup of tea._

* * *

Sansa felt like she was in a dream.

The tourney she had been anticipating ever since she came to King's Landing had finally come and now it was the final day. The jousting finals would take place in the morning, the archery at noon, the Grand Melee would take place in the evening and then there was to be a feast under the stars. It would have been perfect if the tourney wasn't dedicated to the heathen, Damon. Sansa knew that he was trouble ever since Winterfell, when he had nearly killed her beloved Joffrey and then again on the Trident when he tried to take his arm off. Yet, the king did not move to punish him for his misdeeds. Instead he punished her for breaking the betrothal between Sansa and her beloved.

As the horns blew for the day's first joust, Sansa grabbed onto Lady Margaery's hand beside her. The Rose of Highgarden had befriended Sansa at the beginning of the tourney and they have watched it from beginning to end. Sansa had told Margaery that she wished they could be sisters and her response was, "We will be one day." When Sansa asked her what she meant, Margaery just simply laughed it off and told her to wait. The seat beside Sansa had been empty but her father came and took the spot as the horns blew. Septa Mordane had taken ill and Jeyne had never come back after the knight from the Vale died. Sansa had not allowed herself to be affected by that and she remained a proper lady.

Jaime Lannister was the first rider to appear. He glittered from head to heel in his gilded armour, riding an elegant blood bay destrier. Even his lance was fashioned from the golden wood of the Summer Isles. He tossed a kiss to some woman in the commons.

"A hundred golden dragons on the Kingslayer," Littlefinger announced loudly as Jaime Lannister's opponent entered the list. Damon Baratheon rode his monstrous black destrier into the list while he himself looked like a demon from the Seven Hells with his helmet on. The armour was as black as his hair with, the antlers on his helmet had stretched into the air. The commons were shouting for him as well as most of the nobles, even Margaery had let go of Sansa's hand to cheer for the prince. _He must have cast a spell over all their eyes,_ Sansa thought, horrified. _He's put a veil over their eyes and they don't see him for the monster he is._ Sansa didn't worry though, once her golden Joffrey had regained his strength he would shine his light upon Damon and expel the shadow he cloaks himself in, all would see him as Sansa saw him, a violent beast who finds joy in hurting others.

"Done," Lord Renly shouted back. "My nephew has a hungry look about him this morning."

"Even a prince as skilled as Damon Baratheon will find it hard against the Kingslayer," Littlefinger called dryly.

The roar of the commons went louder then, Damon had taken of his helmet and raised it into the air. His hair tumbled down onto the armour and it melted into it. On his lifted arm he wore the favour of his sister, Myrcella. Sansa pitied the girl, she was blind to his true nature because of his honeyed words and poisonous gifts. Damon strapped his helmet back on and took up his positon. Ser Jaime gently lowered his visor and rode to the end of the lists. Both men couched their lances.

Sansa Stark would have loved nothing so well for Damon to lose to his uncle but a deep sinking feeling told her otherwise. A boy brought out a flag and pulled it down. The hastily erected gallery trembled as the horses broke into a gallop. Damon sat strongly on his horse with his lance steady in his grip, he rode terribly stiff, he didn't move well on his horse. Ser Jaime shifted in his saddle just before impact. Damon's point was turned harmlessly against the golden shield with the lion blazon, while Jaime's own hit square. Wood shattered, and Damon sat in his saddle unfazed, while a new lance was handed to him. A round of cheers went around the commons for the Kingslayer.

"I wonder how I ought spend your money," Littlefinger called down to Lord Renly.

Damon Baratheon lazily rode to his place at the end of the gallery for the second pass. Jaime Lannister tossed down his broken lance and snatched up a fresh one, jesting with his squire. Damon spurred his mount forward at a hard gallop. The gilded Kingsguard rose to meet him. This time, Damon rode much better, he seemed to be in motion with the horse and his lance was rock steady in his grip. As the stag met the lion, Damon rolled back his right shoulder and Ser Jaime's lance merely glanced off of the prince's pauldron but Damon's lance had struck true. As the splinters settled, Damon rode in front of the royal box while his uncle rolled around in the dirt, struggling to get his gilded lion helm off of his head.

Sansa said, "I knew that Damon would win."

Littlefinger overheard. "If you know who's going to win the second match, speak up now before Lord Renly plucks me clean," he called to her.

"A pity the Imp is not here with us," Lord Renly said. "I should have won twice as much."

Jaime Lannister was back on his feet, but his ornate lion helmet had been twisted around and dented in his fall, and now he could not get it off. The commons were hooting and pointing, the lords and ladies were trying to stifle their chuckles, and failing, and over it all Sansa could hear King Robert laughing, louder than anyone. Finally they had to lead the Lion of Lannister off to a blacksmith, blind and stumbling. Damon circled the gallery once more as the adoring crowds adored him, none louder than Margaery it seemed to be. _How can she favour him so?_ Sansa wondered.

When Damon had finished, Ser Lucion Lannister was in position at the head of the lists. He was handsome in his crimson armour, but Sansa did not forget that he was Prince Damon's creature, he did that demon's bidding willingly. The Lannister knight had distinguished himself in this tourney though, defeating the Bronze Yohh and his sons as well as Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain that Rides. He was the man that killed the knight from the Vale but in a surprise turn of events, the prince's sworn shield had defeated him. The white courser that Lucion rode was beautiful but it's beauty paled in comparison of Ser Lucion's opponent.

When the Knight of Flowers made his entrance, a murmur ran through the crowd, Sansa whispered fervently, "Oh, he's so beautiful!" Margaery took her hand in her own and smiled. She looked like her brother with her brown curls. Ser Loras Tyrell was slender as a reed, dressed in a suit of fabulous silver armor polished to a blinding sheen and filigreed with twining black vines and tiny blue forget-me-nots. The commons realized in the same instant as Sansa that the blue of the flowers came from sapphires; a gasp went up from a thousand throats. Across her knight's shoulders his cloak hung heavy. It was woven of forget-me-nots, real ones, hundreds of fresh blooms sewn to a heavy woolen cape.

His courser was as slim as her rider, a beautiful grey mare, built for speed. Ser Lucion's white stallion trumpeted as he caught her scent. The Knight of Flowers did something with his legs, and his horse pranced sideways, nimble as a dancer. Sansa tenderly rubbed the white rose that Ser Loras had given her, he had given out many roses that day but hers was the one and only white rose, not even Margaery got a white rose.

Ser Lucion was having trouble controlling his horse. The stallion was screaming and pawing the ground, shaking his head. The Lannister knight kicked at the animal with an armored boot. The horse reared and almost threw him but he nimbly stayed on by shifting his body.

The Knight of Flowers saluted the king, rode to the far end of the list, and couched his lance, ready. Ser Lucion brought his stallion to the line, fighting with the reins. And suddenly it began. Th crimson knight's stallion broke in a hard gallop, plunging forward wildly, while the mare charged as smooth as a flow of silk. Ser Lucion gently placed his shield into position, tenderly couching his lance, and all the while fought to hold his unruly mount on a straight line, and suddenly Loras Tyrell was on him, placing the point of his lance in just the right spot, and in the blink of an eye Ser Lucion was falling from his horse.

Sansa heard applause, cheers, whistles but none could contend with her as she clapped her hands harder than she had ever done before. _My knight,_ Sansa thought. _He gave you his white rose and will now slay the monster._ His lance was not even broken. His sapphires winked in the sun as he raised his visor, smiling. The commons went mad for him. _If father does not betroth me to Joffrey, he will surely give me to Ser Loras._ He was the son of a great house and he was so beautiful.

In the middle of the field, Ser Lucion threw his helmet to the ground in frustration. He struggled to get his mount under control even now as he chased after it. The white stallion had gone mad, screaming, kicking and bucking. It took over five men to calm the horse and to take it away to the pavilions. As the courser was led back to the pavilions, Lord Baelish said, "Tyrell had to know the mare was in heat. I swear the boy planned the whole thing. It is common knowledge that the prince and his sworn shield have always favoured spirited stallions." The notion seemed to amuse him but it appalled Sansa.

"There is is no honour in tricks," she told Lord Baelish.

"No honour but quite a bit of gold." He smiled.

Sansa looked back to the end of the lists and her knight was prepared once more, looking resplendent in his silver armour. He looked like a hero from the songs, sent to save Sansa from the vicious and vile man opposing him. The prince looked as horrid in his armour as he did when she first saw him, the golden favour tied around his arm was in stark constrast to his black armour. Damon had changed his mount, he now rode a white courser that was much better controlled than Ser Lucion's horse. The prince's brute stood beside him and he was glaring at Sansa's knight. _He just envies Ser Loras his skill._

"The prince has left his stallion behind in favour of a mare," her father observed.

"It seems that he will not fall for Ser Loras' tricks like his shield had," said Lord Petyr.

"My brother has no need of tricks to win this tournament," Margaery told the Vale lord. "He defeated Prince Damon in the Tourney at Highgarden."

"When the prince had been blinded by the sun, I heard. Ser Loras had been losing every tilt to him before that."

"You were not there, my lord, I was. Both of them rode well that day but my brother had proven he was the better skilled of the two." Sansa was glad that her friend had finally proven her loyalty to her perfect brother and that she was firmly against the antlered demon.

Both of them rode in front of the royal box and saluted the king. Sansa could not help but witness the great divide between the two horsemen. Even though Prince Damon had switched his dark mount for one with a coat of snow, he still seemed to be shrouded in shadow, as if he was using some dark sorcery to make his visage look more terrifying. But Ser Loras seemed to be luminous, his silver armour shone against the sun and created a dazzling glow that radiated from the Knight of Flowers. Everyone was cheering for the two warriors but Sansa was sure most of them were shouting in favour of her knight.

Damon was the first one to ride to his end of the field and take up his lance. It was made of a strong ebony wood that matched the prince's dark aura. His mare reared up and neighed, the commons roared for it. _They'll cheer for any little action, no matter who does it,_ Sansa surmised.

When the flag came down, the ground trembled under the horse's hooves. Sansa gently rubbed her white rose as the two warriors came closer and closer. Ser Loras rode with an elegance and a grace that Sansa had never seen in a rider before. Damon rode like liquid on his horse, moving with the mount and holding his lance steady in the cradle of his arm. When they came together it was a showering of wooden splinters and both riders were sent reeling back in their saddles. It was the same for the second tilt and the third tilt and every tilt until the tenth where Ser Loras had hurt Damon's shoulder but still the prince stayed on his horse.

Sansa smiled giddily as Ser Loras went to his position, looking beautiful and strong on his grey mare. Damon rode back slower, moving his injured shoulder in circular motions. _This is it,_ Sansa knew as Damon picked up a new lance. _My knight will fell the vile beast and proclaim me his queen of love and beauty._

The commons and nobles alike were silent as the flag-bearer walked to the centre of the field. The man cast a tiny shadow as the sun was near directly above him. Sansa waited with baited breath for the flag, everyone had been on the edge of their seats, even her father who did not want the tourney to go ahead. Sansa was glad her father allowed it because now her knight would get the glory of defeating the evil prince.

The flag was brought down in a _swoosh_ , a red blur. No sooner than it had been brought down Ser Loras and Damon had been galloping to the centre of the gallery, which was trembling with the horse's heavy hooves crashing onto the ground. Ser Loras couched his lance first and Sansa knew just looking at him that he would win. _How could someone so beautiful lose to that antlered monster?_ The dark prince rode his horse hard, his ebony lance was rock steady, it didn't seem anything could move it from Damon's grip. Sansa leaned forward as they came closer and closer and as they finally met, Sansa jumped out of her seat and leaned against the railing. Everyone gasped when the splinters began to decorate the ground and as her knight joined them.

Everyone leapt out of their seats and cheered for the prince, even Margaery. "Damon! Damon! Damon!" they chanted as Sansa sank back into her seat. _Why do they cheer for him?_ Sansa wondered. _Ser Loras lost, they should all be booing the prince for cheating._ They must have seen him cheating, Ser Loras was sure to win but Damon had cheated and won. Sansa had saw his cheating and tried to tell everybody but her voice was drowned in the middle of all the shouting. _This isn't how it should be, in the songs the brave knights always defeat the maiden's monsters._ Her knight was still on the ground struggling to get up. Sansa wanted to run to him and comfort him. She wanted to tell him that everything was all right and that Damon would be punished for cheating.

But as Damon was kneeling down on one knee in front of Ser Barristan and being knighted she knew that that wouldn't happen. Everyone was still ensnared in Damon's spell, even her Knight of Flowers had been drawn in, he bowed in respect and raised Damon's hand up in victory. A herald brought out a crown of purple lilies and handed it Damon, the dark prince took it in hand and rode up and down the stands. Sansa swore that he had smirked at her but it was actually aimed at her friend Margaery who was smiling back. Sansa despaired as her friend appeared to have been trapped in Damon's spell once more. As the prince stopped in front of the royal box, he handed the crown of purple lilies to his sister and named her his queen of love and beauty.

Sansa's eyes drifted from the golden-haired girl to her sweet prince and it was then she realised that Ser Loras had never been the knight that would have defeated the dark prince. He was one of the knights who attempted to defeat the monster but failed, her true knight had been recovering from his previous bout with the monster. Joffrey would one day lay his brother low and finally tear the veil from everybody's eyes and they would all see the monster behind the man. Then her father would see how heroic Joffrey was and he would understand that the business at the river's bank was just a horrible misunderstanding. Joffrey did not mean to take it as far as he did, Sansa was sure. He was just frustated because Arya hit him in the back of his head. They would be married in the Great Sept of Baelor and everyone would be there, they would all bow to Sansa as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

That night Sansa dreamed of the golden and auburn lions that would one day be her children. On the Iron Throne was her beloved Joff, dressed as a hero in gilded armour, a sword laid across his legs. At the foot of the throne was Damon Baratheon, dressed in rags but he was no longer the man she had seen on the tourney field. He had large antlers that stretched up to the heavens. His bare, muscled chest was full of scars and the place where his heart should have been was an empty hole. He looked up at her with cold eyes, dead eyes.


	9. AGOT Damon IV

_sandmanwake:if you see any other characters that are OOC please inform me, some of the simplest things fly over my head because I overthink what I'm trying to do._

* * *

Damon was honing his new sword that had been forged for him by Tobho Mott, the sound of the whetstone rubbing against the bastard sword was the only noise that could be heard in the Red Keep's Godswood. The black haired prince was leaning against heart tree of the Godswood, a great oak, whose limbs had become overgrown with smokeberry vines. Damon had often come here for the peace and quiet it offered when he was in the capital after he had argued with his mother or brother. He didn't come to pray, he just sat there for hours on end, listening to the lapping waves of the Blackwater Rush below. Damon had spent entire nights in the Godswood when Maegor's Holdfast had become too much for him, he would lie on the ground and rest his head on one of the roots of the heart tree sprung from the ground. He would wake up to a painful back but he didn't have to listen to his brother's endless mocking and his mother's complaints.

Damon gently stroked the blade with the whetstone, the blade looked a dull grey but Damon had been stroking it for so long it had a shine to it. He slowly stood up and grasped the blade with both hands, adjusting his grip to make it feel just right. Damon sliced at the empty air, the blade making a ringing noise as he did so. He slashed, he thrust, he blocked, he parried, he countered, he twirled, he spun, he stabbed. _Never train by yourself, it will only embed your errors,_ the words of Lymond Westford rung in his head as he danced with the blade. He could almost hear the captain muttering, "Wrong," as if he was eight years old again and training at the Rock while Ser Lymond was still the Master-at-Arms. _If the Old Gods are real, I have never been alone here._

The peaceful Godswood was now occupied by the sound of Damon's blade and his grunts, the dead leaves crunching under his foot. Damon's practice was cut short as he heard light footsteps approaching. _Lucion,_ Damon thought. He had become accustomed to the sound of his sworn shields footsteps. They were always light and soft, even if he wore heavy boots and his scaled armour. Ser Lymond had heavy footsteps, you could hear him from a mile away, Barristan had a rhythmic footsteps like he was marching with a thousand other men and his uncle had quick feet.

Lucion stepped into the Godswood and quickly found his charge practicing his swordplay. He was wearing a crimson boiled leather tunic with two golden lions sewn onto its breast, combatant. He had his hand on the pommel of his sword, standing with his back straight and his head held high. "Your lady mother wishes for you to come to the great hall for the feast," Lucion said.

"And what did my lord father say?" Damon asked, tossing his sword into the air from his right hand and catching it in his left hand. Damon had never had to train his left hand to be as good as his right hand or train his right hand to be as good as his left hand, they had always been as good as each other.

"If I remember correctly, his exact words were, 'Get that fucking boy down here now or I'll cut both of his bloody sword arms off'. I don't believe he'll fulfil that threat but I still wouldn't keep him waiting for much longer." Lucion smiled.

Damon walked over to the edge of the Godswood where you could see the mouth of the Blackwater Rush where the water was streaming in from Blackwater Bay, and the Narrow Sea where Dragonstone was and his uncle Stannis. _Where are you Stannis? What are you doing?_ Damon had expected his dour uncle to return for his nameday but he had remained on his island fortress and Damon was still the Master of Ships. Although he didn't have to do much in this position, pirates didn't come near any of the Royal Fleets ships and the Ironborn were still quiet on their archipelago of Islands for the past eight years. The odd time a smuggler would be caught in the bay but that was easily dealt with by the Gold cloaks. Damon now spent the most of his time in the small council chambers, helping to rule the realm. _Is that why he left? The stresses of ruling had made him leave._ Damon found that hard to believe, his uncle had never shirked his duty and he would never leave so abruptly unless something important had happened.

He had left King's Landing shortly after Jon Arryn had died. _Could he have . . . no!_ Stannis was a bitter man for suffering many imagined slights against his person but Damon would not believe that he had poisoned Jon Arryn. His uncle was dutiful and he was just, he wouldn't have poisoned a good man like Jon Arryn. Damon then found himself thinking if anyone had tried to poison Jon Arryn, he had been a healthy man when Damon had last seen him. _No, nobody poisoned him, he was an old man who was running Seven Kingdoms, he most likely died from stress, nobody poisoned him._ Lord Tywin had instilled a mistrust of most people in him but Damon knew that there was a fine line between mistrust and paranoia, and Damon's thinking had been paranoid, looking for enemies in the shadows when there was nobody there.

"A man should not make threats that he does not intend to carry out," Damon told Lucion, they were the words of Tywin Lannister. Damon had been told them when Lord Tywin had told him he would scrub his own floors for a month if he went jumping off the cliffs again. "You're bluffing!" Damon had shouted at him, the next day he jumped off the cliffs again. He went to bed with red raw hands for an entire month and Damon had not jumped off a cliff since. That was five years ago but Damon could still remember it like it was yesterday, he had remembered all of Lord Tywin's lessons and he tried to emulate the man as best as Damon could.

"Ah, so we're quoting Lord Tywin now, you must have been contemplating for longer than I thought, or have you just been reading one of those books that you love so much," Lucion smiled, bending over to pick up a stone, tossing it up in the air and catching it as it came down.

"A mind needs a book like a sword needs a whetstone," Damon quoted his uncle Tyrion. Damon did not approve of his constant whoring and drinking, he wouldn't have minded it if he had been more discreet but his dwarf uncle had flaunted his hobbies almost as much as Damon's own father. Damon and Tyrion were not close but Damon had respected his uncles mind, he had one to rival Lord Tywin himself. _If he had not been born a dwarf, he would be heir to the Rock and not me._

"And your mind is as sharp as that sword, I have no doubt," Lucion said, catching the stone on the the way down. "Anyway, it's about time we went to see your father and mother."

Damon was lead to his father's solar by Lucion, Ser Meryn was standing outside, he could see his droopy eyes and red beard beneath his helm. He entered his solar to find his father sitting at his desk and his mother standing tall and dignified. "About bloody time you arrived," his father said in an angry tone, "we were looking for you for half the bloody morning, where were you?"

"In the Godswood," Damon said, simply. "I wanted some peace and quiet before the feast began, Your Grace." _And I didn't want to see you in your cups._ Surprisingly, his father did not look like he had touched a drink so far, by now Damon had expected him to be groping the nearest wench and his face to be flushed from drinking. Damon had vague memories about a tall strong man that had lifted him high into the air, so high he had felt he was flying, but that man had left over a decade ago.

"Of course, my sweet," his mother said with a smile so sweet it could give him a tooth ache. His mother had seemed to have forgotten about her hatred for him for his nameday which Damon was thankful for, he was not interested in seeing her venomous glares with daggers in her eyes every time he looked hear way on his nameday. "But you are the man of the hour, appearances must be kept, we cannot have you disappearing when all of this is for you."

Damon nodded, "I understand, mother." He turned back to his father. "I presume you have something to tell me, father." _Elsewise, why would you call me here? I know how to dress myself and I know where the great hall is._

"Right, well, your mother and I will enter first, then after us it will be Joffrey and Myrcella," his father stated what Damon knew what would happen. It was hardly likely Ned Stark would allow Joffrey within ten feet of his daughters. "Then you will escort Arya in after them." His mother hid her displeasure behind a a forced smile. _He does not mean to betroth me to Arya, surely. Ned Stark wouldn't allow it, grandfather wouldn't allow it._ Did his father wish to rekindle the Baratheon-Stark marital alliance? Damon had thought that any hope of that alliance was gone when his brother had swung his sword within a hair's breadth of Arya Stark's head.

"I presume Lord Stark has agreed to this," Damon stated.

"Yes, I begged him to give one of my son's another chance to redeem themselves in his eyes, so don't make a mess of it," his father warned. _A king should not beg,_ his grandfather would say.

"Very well," Damon said, "but when we go into the hall, you do not touch a drop of wine throughout the feast, you will be civil towards one another until the feast ends, you will not give one another any disdainful looks, you will not grope any women and you will not insult any lord, lady, knight, or servant until the feast is done." He had said it in his most commanding tone, his grandfather said it was a good voice to command and to cow people into submission. His parents looked taken aback, that he would use such a tone on them. In truth, Damon did not care if he escorted Arya, he liked her as a friend, but he could not think of her in the marital sense. He just wanted to remember his coming of age fondly and to enjoy it in the moment, without it being plagued by his father's groping and his mother's disdainful looks. They both nodded to Damon's surprise, he had suspected them to argue and tell him will do whatever they wish wether he liked it or not, he did not expect them to accept his demands so quickly. _Perhaps they do not wish to argue with me on my nameday._

"Very well, boy," his father said, it irked Damon that his father called him _boy,_ he was a man grown but still treated like a child. "Now, go and get prepared for the feast."

Damon's clothing was laid out for him on his bed, he had taken off his training leathers and had a bath. He donned his new clothes, he wore a golden vest over a white shirt, black dress pants trimmed with gold, a black velvet coat with stags antlers sewn onto the breast and golden satin sleeves. Damon would usually wore clothes with lions and other Lannister imagery but today would be one of the few remaining days he would be a Baratheon so he decided to dress the part.

Damon met with Arya outside of the great hall, she wore a simple grey dress compared to her sister's blue ballroom gown, she didn't look comfortable in it, she kept scratching and itching. "How are you, my lady?" he gave an elaborate bow, holding onto the pommel of his sword at his waist.

She grimaced, "Terrible, this dress is itchy." She tried to get at an itch at the centre of her back, she stretched both of her arms but she could not reach it. Damon relieved the itch for her, she smiled in thanks.

"Do you not attend your dancing lessons in your dresses?" Damon asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Um . . . of . . . of course," she stuttered, biting her bottom lip and looking at her feet.

Damon chuckled to himself before looking at Arya, "You're a terrible liar, you know." She gaped at him. "You don't have to tell me what you are actually doing with your dancing master but just know that you can't lie to me, for the short time that we have known each other, I know you well enough to know when you are lying."

The trumpets sounded and the doors of the great hall swung open to reveal hundreds of guests applauding them as they entered. He saw the burning tree of Ashemark adorning one man's tunic, the golden Tyrell rose on another, the Eagle of the Mallisters and many more sigils. He walked to the end of the hall where the high table was situated, Arya holding onto his arm as lady-like as she could be. Damon sat in the seat of prominence at the centre of the high table, his father on his left and Arya on his right.

As the feast rolled on, the servants brought out all of his favourite foods, chicken, steak, pork, and dozens of other kinds of foods. When the sixth course of food was finished, a congregation of lords, ladies and knights had assembled just below the high table preparing to give him his gifts for his sixteenth nameday. The first person to approach the table was his uncle Renly who gifted him hunting hounds and boar spears, Damon thanked him for the gift even though his father would probably make better use of the gift than Damon ever would. After Renly, came Ser Loras and Margaery who gifted him a tall hunting eagle, which was brought away from the table by a servant. Ser Lymond gifted him a Westerland wolfhound pup, it was big enough already but the Westerland wolfhound always was a large animal. Myrcella wanted to hold him so Ser Lymond went over to her and spent most of the night by his sister's side.

Stannis was still sulking on Dragonstone but he had sent a messenger in his stead, who apologised for his absence. But the gift he had received was more than enough of an apology, the messenger had informed that there was a ship waiting for him in the bay. Lord Stark had given him a horse that waited for him in the stables. Ser Addam Marbrand had gifted him a Cyvasse set, the pieces painted red and gold. Lord Estermont sent him a twin set of golden rings encrusted with opal and emeralds. Lucion had gifted him a sable golden cloak trimmed with fur at the sides with a golden stag pin.

As Lucion stepped down from the spot where those who were giving gifts, another blonde haired man took his place. He was portly, balding, had rounded shoulders and a closely trimmed beard. Kevan Lannister apologised for his brother's absence but there was a matter that had arisen that he was taking care of. Firstly, a servant placed a large heavy package placed on the table. He opened it and inside was three books, _Lives of_ _Four Kings_ , _A History of the Great Sieges of Westeros by Archmaester_ _Ch'Vyalthan_ and _Jade Compendium_. Kevan said that they were given to him by his uncle Tyrion. Damon told his uncle to tell Tyrion thank you when he saw him next. Then Kevan gave him a shield polished to a sheen with a roaring Lion's head in the middle. Kevan then took out a scroll and read that his grandfather had gifted him a Keep of the coast of the Westerlands as well as two silver mines. Damon was stunned into silence while everyone in the hall clapped in unison. Damon had expected the scroll to pronounce him as heir to the Westerlands but a Keep was still a tremendous gift but he had made a mental note to talk to Kevan about that before he left King's Landing.

"Damon", his father stood up with his goblet in his hand, which was full of water rather than wine. "When you were a lad, you were a nightmare to deal with, so I sent you to your grandfather to learn some respect. You left King's Landing as a boy and you came back to me as a man grown who would make any father proud. I take pride in everything that you have accomplished so far and I know that your story has just begun and the world will know the name, Damon Baratheon!" Everyone else stood up from there seats and began to chant his name in unison. Damon couldn't keep himself from grinning ear to ear. As the seventh course was being brought out, his mother took him aside behind the high table.

"Damon," his mother said, softer than she had in the past year, she began to gently stroke his cheek. He had forgotten how soft her hands had been and how reassuring they were. "My darling boy, you and I have not seen eyes to eye for a long time now, I accept that much of the tension between us was because of me and that I have not been as kind as I should be but do know that I will always love you no matter what, you are my black lion and I hope by the Seven that someday I earn your forgiveness so that we can be like we were when you were young, so that we can love each other forever." Damon saw the truth in her eyes, her emerald eyes, the eyes he wished he had, the eyes he longed to have but instead was cursed with eyes like purple sapphires.

Damon took a deep breath, fighting the urge to cry. "There's nothing to forgive, mother," he said, meaning every word.

"Oh, my boy," she said as she pulled him into a hug, "my beautiful boy." There they stayed for what seemed like an eternity and Damon never wanted it to end. This had been the closest he had been with his mother since he had first left King's Landing, in her arms he felt safe, like nothing bad could happen to him while being in her arms. He closed his eyes and pretended he was a boy again where his mother lifted him up and hugged him so tight he found it hard to breathe. Then it was over and it was over too soon. They shared one more look and his mother cupped his face with her hand before moving back to her seat.

Damon took a step out of the hall to dry his eyes, he didn't want his father to see his eyes watered. The cool air of the hallway was a welcome exchange for the stuffy heat of the Great Hall. Damon rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath before turning back towards the Great Hall but his brother was in the way, his dog at his shoulder. "What are you crying for, you child?"

Damon ignored him and tried to step around but Joffrey jumped in his way. "Excuse me, Joffrey, it seems you are in my way," he said, clenching his jaw, his fists joined it soon after.

"I'm exactly where I want to be," Joffrey sneered. Damon wanted nothing more than to wipe the smug look off of his face but he calmed down and steeled himself for the barbed insults he knew he was about to receive.

"Do you forget the last time you were in my path, you ended up broken and bloody," Damon threatened, the dog edged his way forward but Joffrey called him off.

"Where were you going?" Joffrey asked.

"What?" Damon was confused by the sudden change of tone from his brother. "Um, I was going to go back into the hall."

"Are you sure?" he asked, with a sly grin.

"Yes, of course I'm sure, now if you'll excuse me, I have my nameday feast to attend." Damon tried to move around him but Joffrey got in his way again.

"Are you sure you're not off to see that Stark girl of yours?" Damon tried to close his ears from his brother's words. "I saw her sneak off in the middle of the feast, I presume she went back to your chambers to wait for you. I must applaud you brother, I haven't broken in my Stark bi—" His brother never got to finish his sentence before Damon grabbed his throat with one hand and pushed him against the wall.

Damon was grabbed from behind and lifted into the air. He struggled to break free from the Hound's grasp but he threw his head back and Clegane dropped him, Damon quickly found his feet and spun on the youngest Clegane brother. Damon had bloodied his nose and before he recovered Damon punched him directly on his cheekbone on the burnt side of his face. The Hound growled in pain and went down in his heavy armour. He twirled on his brother just in time to dodge a punch from his brother. Before Joffrey could pull his fist back, he grabbed his brother's wrist in a vice-like grip and took his neck in the other hand.

Damon pushed Joffrey back up against the wall and he leaned in close, "The next time you threaten or insult the Stark girls will be the last time you use your tongue." Damon held his brother up against the wall for a moment before lifting him into the air. He tried first to hit Damon but he had the reach on Joffrey, so eventually he tried to pry Damon's hand off of his throat. Damon dropped him onto the ground and his brother held his throat gently while coughing and dry heaving.

"If you tell anyone of this, the next time will be worse, much worse," Damon said, before standing on his brother's hand and walking back to the Great Hall.

He sat down beside his father, who was laughing with Lord Eddard and Arya's vacant seat was now taken by his mother, he smiled at her and she smiled back, the night was getting better and better.


	10. AGOT Eddard III

_Hail King Cerion:Thank you for saying the dialogue is good, watching every medieval movie and tv show under the sun has finally paid off. Cersei does love Damon very much but something that I noticed in Cersei's POV chapters is that Joffrey is put on a pedestal so high, if any of her other children were gods they still wouldn't reach him. I recall her saying, "Tommen is not fit to be king, not like Joff, who was always so strong." She thinks this after Tommen cries at his brother's funeral which is pretty standard reaction for an 8 year old but Cersei just disapproved of it. She does love all her kids but she's just downright unreasonable when any of them come into conflict with Joffrey, which Damon always does. It wasn't actually Robert who put Damon on the Small Council, it was Stannis who named him as his deputy with the reason of learning how to rule and since the Small Council couldn't see a downside to the plan, they welcomed him with open arms. For Joffrey to be put on the small council, Robert would have to show some political initiative and we all know how skilled good old Rob is in politics._

* * *

"Robert, I beg of you," Ned pleaded, "hear what you are saying. You are talking of murdering a child."

"The whore is pregnant!" The king's fist slammed down on the council table loud as a thunderclap. "I warned you this would happen, Ned. Back in the barrowlands, I warned you, but you did not care to hear it. Well, you'll hear it now. I want them dead, mother and child both, and that fool Viserys as well. Is that plain enough for you? I want them dead."

The other councillors were all doing their best to pretend that they were somewhere else. No doubt they were wiser than he was. Eddard Stark had seldom felt quite so alone. "You will dishonor yourself forever if you do this."

"Then let it be on my head, so long as it is done. I am not so blind that I cannot see the axe when it is hanging over my own neck."

"There is no axe," Ned told his king. "Only the of a shadow, twenty years removed . . . if it exists at all."

"If?" Varys asked softly, wringing powdered hands together. "My lord, you wrong me. Would I bring lies to king and council?"

Ned looked at the eunuch coldly. "You would bring us the whisperings of a traitor half a world away, my lord. Perhaps Mormont is wrong. Perhaps he is lying."

"Ser Jorah would not dare deceive me," Varys said with a sly smile. "Rely on it, my lord. The princess is with child."

"So you say. If you are wrong, we need not fear. If miscarries, we need not fear. If she births a daughter in place of a son, we need not fear. If the babe dies in infancy, we need not fear."

"But if it is a boy?" insisted. "If he lives?"

"The narrow sea would still lie between us. I shall fear the Dothraki the day they teach their horses to run on water."

The king took a swallow of glowered at Ned across the council table. "So you would counsel me to until the dragonspawn has landed his army on my shores, is that it?"

"This 'dragonspawn' is in his mother's belly," Ned said. "Even Aegon the Conqueror did no conquering until after he was weaned."

"Gods! You are stubborn as an aurochs, Stark." The king looked around the council table. "Have the rest of you mislaid your tongues? Will no one talk sense to this frozen-faced fool?"

Varys gave the king an unctuous smile and laid a soft hand on Ned's sleeve. "I understand your qualms, Lord Eddard, truly I do. It gave me no joy to bring this grievous news to council. It is a terrible thing we contemplate, a vile thing. Yet we who presume to rule must do vile things for the good of the realm, howevermuch it pains us."

Lord Renly shrugged. "The matter seems simple enough to me. We ought to have had Viserys and his sister killed years ago, but His Grace my brother made the mistake of listening to Jon Arryn."

"Mercy is never a mistake, Lord Renly," Ned replied. "On the Trident, Ser Barristan here slew a dozen good men, Robert's friends and mine. When they brought him to us, grievously wounded and near death, Roose Bolton urged us to cut his throat, but your brother said, 'I will not kill a man for loyalty, nor for fighting well,' and sent his own maester to tend Ser Barristan's wounds." He gave the king a long cool look. "Would that man were here today."

Robert had shame enough to blush. "It was not the same," he complained. "Ser Barristan was a knight of the Kingsguard."

"Whereas Daenerys is a seventeen-year-old girl." Ned knew he was pushing this well past the point of wisdom, yet he could not keep silent. "Robert, I ask you, what did we rise against Aerys Targaryen for, if not to put an end to the murder of children?"

"To put an end to Targaryens!" the king growled.

"Your Grace, I never knew you to fear Rhaegar." Ned fought to keep the out of his voice, and failed. "Have the years so unmanned you that you tremble at the shadow of an unborn child?"

Robert purpled. "No more, Ned," he warned, pointing. "Not another word. Have you forgotten who is king here?"

"No, Your Grace," Ned replied. "Have you?"

"Enough!" the king bellowed. "I am sick of talk. I'll be done with this, or be damned. What say you all?"

"She must be killed," Lord Renly declared.

"We have no choice," murmured Varys. "Sadly, sadly . . . "

Ser Barristan Selmy raised his pale from the table and said, "Your Grace, there is honor in facing an enemy on the battlefield, but none in killing him in his mother's womb. Forgive me, but I must stand with Lord Eddard."

Grand Maester Pycelle cleared his throat, a process that seemed to take some minutes. "My order serves the realm, not the ruler. Once I counseled King Aerys as loyally as I counsel King Robert now, so I bear this girl child of his no ill will. Yet I ask you this—should war come again, how many soldiers will die? How many towns will burn? How many children will be ripped from their mothers to perish on the end of a spear?" He stroked his luxuriant white beard, infinitely sad, infinitely weary. "Is it not wiser, even kinder, that Daenerys Targaryen should die now so that tens of thousands might live?"

"Kinder," Varys said. "Oh, well and truly spoken, Grand Maester. It is so true. Should the gods in their caprice grant Daenerys Targaryen a son, the realm must bleed."

Littlefinger was spoke next. As Ned looked to him, Lord Petyr stifled a yawn. "When you find yourself in bed with an ugly woman, the best thing to do is close your eyes and get on with it," he declared. "Waiting won't make the maid any prettier. her and be done with it."

"Kiss her?" Ser Barristan repeated, aghast.

"A steel kiss," said Littlefinger.

Then every councillor in the room found themselves looking at the prince, he was standing the furthest away from the table that the small council had huddled around. Damon then took a step forward and leaned on the table. "I agree with Lord Eddard and Ser Barristan, I believe we should spare the girl." Ned couldn't believe the prince's words, everything Damon did somehow always surprised him.

Robert clenched his fists and his knuckles turned to white. "You idiot, I thought learning from Tywin Lannister would make you fine with this! I thought you were supposed to be ruthless, not some soft boy who shies away from killing his families enemies!"

"I would lay my life down to kill my families enemies but what you speaking of is killing a babe before it is even born," Damon said, staring at his father with a cold fury. "I could never abide that."

"Seven hells," Robert swore, "you foolish boy."

"If I am so foolish then why am I one of the few who sees the Dothraki threat for what it is, a curiosity on the far edge of the world, something that we need not ever deal with," Damon said, taking his hands off the table and standing up straight.

"Do explain what you mean, my prince," Varys tittered.

"The Dothraki respect strength, they don't respect bloodrights or the son of a Khal, a babe has no strength and therefore the Dothraki won't follow him. If you kill the Khal's Khaleesi and his unborn child, then you have challenged that strength and you have threatened his position as Khal, so only one path will be left before this Khal Drogo, to come to Westeros and prove his strength before his Khalasar," Damon explained. Ned didn't know how the prince knew this much of the Dothraki, the most he knew was that they were savages who worshipped their horses. "Father, you once went to war after your betrothed had been kidnapped, would you expect any other kind of reaction if you killed the man's wife and unborn child." Ned looked down at his feet at the mention of his sister. How different would his life be if Rhaegar had never stolen his sister away? He wouldn't be married to his beloved Cat and he wouldn't be the Lord of Winterfell, both of those honours would have gone to Brandon while Ned would be in his brother's shadow. _Would I have joined the Night's Watch like Benjen had? There was still honour to be found in that ancient order._

"Khal Drogo, it's said he has over forty thousand Dothraki screamers in his army. You expect me to ignore that? To just wait and _hope_ he doesn't come to our shores?" Robert hissed.

"I'm glad his army is so large," Damon said, while everyone stared at the young prince incredously. "If you had bothered to learn anything about the Dothraki, my king, then you would know it is not just warriors that march in a Khalasar. Women and children go wherever their Khal goes, so that means besides his forty thousand men and his forty thousand horses he would have to take just as many women and children with him. By my estimate, Khal Drogo would need well over a thousand ships to sail his people across the Narrow Sea and it would be near impossible to gather enough food, water and horse fodder to feed an army that size while it crosses the Narrow Sea. And if the did land, we would be waiting for them, to ride them down while they are at their weakest."

"And what if they come through Dorne?" asked Renly.

"I'll thank the Seven for their foolishness, let them march across that barren wasteland while we muster our forces and wait for them at Prince's Pass. We need not enter Dorne, we just have to wait for the Khalasar to starve to death," Damon sat down and arrogantly leaned back.

The Grand Maester then began to speak, "Although it is admirable of you, my prince, to want to spare the girl's life, we cannot risk the lives of tens of thousands to the whim of a savage Dothraki horselord. If she were to convince her husband of marching on Westeros, many more innocents will die, that is why it might be nobler to kill the girl now."

"Has your old age turned you deaf, Pycelle?" Damon asked as the Grand Maester turned red. "To kill the Targaryen girl now would raise the risk of Khal Drogo marching our way, if we were going to kill anyone, we should kill the Khal. Kill him and his Khalasar would break down in a power struggle by the other Dothraki and they would probably kill the Targaryen girl for us, just to make sure her child doesn't grow up to reap vengeance on those who abandoned the Khalasar."

"I couldn't have said it better, my prince," Ned said, bowing his head.

"Thank you, Lord Stark," Damon said with cocksure arrogance before looking back to Robert. "So, father, will you take my advice or risk all to kill an unborn babe?"

"The Targaryen girl . . . lives for now," Robert said. Ned breathed a sigh of relief. "But if she marches on Westeros, on your head be the consequences, Damon." The king then left the chambers quickly after that with Ser Barristan following him like a white shadow.

Then slowly after that, the other members of the council left, Littlefinger first, then the Spider and finally the Grand Maester, before long only Ned and Prince Damon remained. The young prince was staring off into the distance, clearly deep in thought. "I would like to thank you for convincing your father to spare the girl's life," Ned said to the prince, breaking him out of his trance.

"I did not do it for the girl, I did it for her child, if she was not with child, I believe that I would have supported my father's scheme to kill her." And with those few words, whatever different light he had seen the prince in was dashed and he now saw the grandson of Tywin Lannister once more. "My lord," the prince said in farewell, leaving the council chambers, leaving Ned feeling more alone than he had been in in over eighteen years.


	11. AGOT Damon V

_Author's note:Missed last weeks chapter because I was on holiday and I wanted to change something in this chapter because it didn't make sense. Anyway, next week should have a chapter._

 _Kail Blade:Has Ned ever been fair if Tywin Lannister was involved?_

 _Blackhammer135:Damon isn't going to be a perfect character, there's a lot of things going to happen to him that will represent some hasty and poor judgement. The reason that he doesn't have many flaws right now is because of his position, the ward and all-but-declared heir of Tywin Lannister, son of the Demon of the Trident, student of Barristan the Bold, nephew of the Kingslayer, son of Queen Cersei, if you tried to mess with him, it wouldn't be worth the consequences. But you'll see some of his naivety next book and his pride making him blind. Bear in mind, the only POV's we have seen describing Damon are himself(he loves himself), Ned(sees him as a mind Tywin), Sansa(blindly hates him because she loves Joffrey), Myrcella(who is blind to all his bad traits because she loves him so much) and Arya(who liked him because he was nice to her). The only person who will give a clear insight to Damon's true character is Tywin or Kevan and right now, neither of them have any POVs planned._

* * *

The sun was beating down upon the blood red walls of the Red Keep as Damon began to enter a defensive stance. He could hear men jeering and shouting wanton remarks at the edge of the human circle that they had formed while they had been training. Damon looked across the circle towards his opponent. _Even his training armour has flowers on it._ The Knight of Flowers was standing opposite him with a sword and shield at the ready, his visor was down but his long brown curls had spilled out of the bottom of his helm, while Damon's hair was plastered to his forehead from previous bouts. Ser Loras was as fresh as the daisies on his armour but if Damon couldn't beat someone when he was tired what would he expect to be able to do in a real battle.

Damon pulled down his visor and raised his shield. He was wearing a shirt of black enamelled scales that allowed him more movement than plate would allow him. Ser Aron stepped into the centre of the circle and looked at Damon, the prince nodded, the Master-at-Arms then looked at Ser Loras who nodded. The jeering from the Reachmen and the Lannisters faded into the background and before long, the only thing that Damon could hear was the sound of his breathing inside of his breath, then the Dornishman shouted, "Fight!" and it began. Loras surged forward and immediately put Damon on the defensive.

Damon raised his shield and deflected each and every one of the blows that Loras threw at him. Then when Loras tried to slash at Damon's ankles, the young prince dodged the low blow and bashed his shield into the Knight of Flowers' shoulder. Ser Loras stumbled to the ground for half a moment before he was on his feet again raising his shield against Damon's heavy blows. Damon kept slashing, thrusting and swinging his blade with his utmost force until Loras was at the edge of the circle with his back to a gaggle of Reachmen. Damon prepared to bash his shield into Loras but he ducked just in time and Damon's shield sent a knight from the Reach flying, blood and spittle gliding through the air.

Damon turned onto Loras and before he knew it, Ser Loras was attacking him again, sparing no quarter. It went on like this for another minute before Loras was able to get inside of Damon's defense and disarm him, leaving him with his shield as his only weapon left. Damon then began to evade all of Loras' blows and with each misplaced thrust or poor slash, the more frustrated Loras became. After another minute of a barrage of attacks, Loras put his shield to his side and his sword down, leaving his chest exposed. Damon, grasping on the opportunity, threw his shield at the Knight of Flowers' chest distracting him long enough for the prince to charge at him and upend him onto the ground. Loras struggled for a time but even though he was older, Damon was stronger than him and was able to pin him to ground. He grabbed the Loras' fallen sword and held it to his throat.

"Yield?" Damon asked, panting heavily.

"Yield!" Loras shouted through his visor.

Damon got off him and sat on the dirt of the make shift arena, everything coming back to him at once. His muscles were killing him and he felt as if his lungs were about to collapse. The yard was full of soldiers shouting, instead of a single chant that was held in unison, it was a mess of "Baratheon", "Lannister", "Black Lion" and "Prince Damon". Damon could hear clapping from the balcony above and he looked up to see ladies of the court applauding him on his victory. The ones most obvious to him were his sister, who was giddily jumping up and down and Margaery who was smiling and clapping for him even though he was fighting against her brother.

Damon stood up and the armour he wore felt like all of the bricks of the Red Keep were tossed onto his shoulders. Two squires picked up the swords and shields dropped in the duel and a tunnel was made for him as he left the circle, walls made of clapping soldiers. Damon made his way into Maegor's Holdfast after telling Ser Aron of his departure and as soon as he entered the castle inside a castle, Lucion had become his shadow again.

"That was a good bout!" Lucion said, loudly, to be heard over the sound of Damon's boots echoing against the walls.

"No, it wasn't, I let him disarm me and then I threw my shield away recklessly," Damon said, stretching his shoulders.

"I know, Ser Lymond would scold you but you did win it at least." At the mention of his name, Damon's captain of the guards appeared as if magically summoned.

The bearded soldier stood up straight before him, "My prince, Ser Kevan has requested you sup with him this evening."

"Than you, Ser Lymond, you may tell my uncle I will meet with him an hour after the sun goes down," Damon said, the captain saluted and began to walk away, "also," Ser Lymond turned back towards him, "can you tell the servants to draw me a bath." He saluted once more and walked away.

Lucion began to undo the buckles on his armour once they got back to his room, stretching his neck as Lucion made his way through the last of the buckles. "Stop moving, it's more difficult when you do," he said, Damon stopped moving as Lucion finished the rest of the buckles. "When will you be getting a squire? You're an anointed knight now, you need a squire."

He winced as Lucion lifted off the shirt, his body was covered in large purple bruises and his fingers had all at least on cut. "Why do I need a squire, whoever does become my squire, he's going to be someone's spy," Damon said as Lucion placed his shirt of scales on a chest, "I'd prefer to only have Ser Lymond being the only one spying on me." Damon fell on his bed from exhaustion and looked up the canopy.

"But surely you will get a squire eventually?" Lucion said as he sat down on the chair next to his bed.

Damon sighed, "Name any person I could take as my squire and I'll tell you why I can't take them as my squire."

Lucion looked up to the roof like he would find the answers there. "How about Tyrek? He's your father's squire and he does nothing because Lancel is too much of a kiss arse."

"Tyrek wouldn't do, he serves my grandfather by keeping a close eye on the king, I don't need him telling Lord Tywin about how many shits I take," Damon sat up as a maid brought in two steaming buckets of water. Damon eyed her warily and waited for her to leave before before he resumed his conversation.

"Fine, if not Tyrek, how about a Riverman or a Reachman," Lucion said, as he leaned on his elbow, clearly bored with this talk of spies and squires. _He prefers a simpler life, a sword in one hand and a goblet of wine in another, my friend was not made for a life of courtly intrigue._

"The Spider or my mother would pay them to spy on me before they took a step within a hundred leagues of King's Landing." Damon stood up and began to take off his clothes. "No, if I am to have a squire I will have to make sure that I trust him before he enters my service."

Damon began to walk towards the tub of water, he could see the steam rise up and making the mirror beside it all foggy and hazy. "Lucion, you can step outside for the moment, I won't be taking that long."

Lucion got off the chair and put his hand on the pommel of his sword. "My prince," he delivered a curt bow and walked out of Damon's chambers.

Damon stripped fully naked then and dipped his hand into the water. It sizzled as Damon left it there, when he took his hand out it stung from the heat. Damon stepped into the bath and let the heat wash over him, like a raging fire storm had surrounded and he felt the lick of flames everywhere on his body.

The young prince held the steak down while he used his other hand to cut the end of the steak with his knife. He put the large piece of meat in his mouth and drank his wine to wash it all down. On the opposite side of the table was Kevan Lannister, the queen's uncle and Damon's great-uncle. The green-eyed knight had already finished his steak and was now devouring the fish that had been laid out specifically for him as per Damon's request. _Has he gotten bigger since I've seen him last?_ Damon wondered. The Lannister knight had always been a portly man, Damon's first memories of him was of a stout man with a sword always by his grandfather's side.

"So, how has Casterly Rock been since I was last there?" Damon asked his uncle as he bit a fish's head off.

"Very well, House Lannister and Casterly Rock are in a golden era that has not been seen since before the Conqueror came," Kevan said, staring at Damon across the candle-lit table.

"How are Martyn and Willem faring?" It had seemed an age since had seen his two cousins, they used to follow Damon around as if he was one of the Seven.

"Very well, both are becoming competent swordsmen and are doing well in their studies," Kevan had a fond smile on his face. _Uncle Kevan was always compassionate when I was a child, the warm sun to grandfather's icy demeanour._

"And little Janei? It's been so long, I won't recognise her when I see her next." His young cousin had just been three months old when he had last seen her.

"She is doing fantastic, she spoke her first word just before I left the Rock, she said 'Papa'," Kevan grinned from ear to ear and Damon joined him.

Damon raised his goblet, "To your children and their health," he toasted.

"A fine toast," Kevan lifted his goblet and tapped his off Damon's making a _clink_ sound.

When Damon finished his drink he poured another for himself and he refilled his uncle's glass. "Uncle, I want to thank you again for the gift for my nameday. I was amazed when you said that I had received a castle!"

Kevan smiled and leaned as some servants came to take away his plate which was now decorated with fish bones. "I gave you nothing, my boy. It was Tywin who gave you the Keep, I was just the messenger."

"Even so, I thank you," Damon leaned back as another servant took his half-finished plate. "And tell me, do you know what it is like?"

"I went to visit it before I came here." He took another gulp of wine. "It is not as grand as the Red Keep or as formidable as Casterly Rock but it is a good place to live, to start a family."

"I want to say again, that I thank you but it was not what I was expecting, I was expecting something much different," Damon said, looking into his uncle's eyes he knew that Kevan knew what Damon was talking about.

"Damon, your grandfather felt that it was an inopportune time for that announcement to be made," Kevan said, diplomatically. "He believes that we should wait a while longer for-"

"Why? Why should we wait a while longer?" Damon interrupted his uncle. "I've waited for over a year for this to be announced and I believed grandfather was ready to announce it as well."

"Tywin has begun a plan to help-"

"Stop speaking cryptically, Kevan!" Damon said, louder than he meant to. "I'm a man grown now, I deserve to know what my grandfather wants for my future!" Damon saw a twitch at the end of Kevan's lip. "Unless he has changed his mind and no longer wants me as his heir."

"What? Of course he wants you as his heir, Damon. He has never wanted anything more than to name you as his heir," Kevan spoke with urgency, washing Damon's fears away.

"Then why not name me his heir when I came of age?" he asked, his uncle clearly wanted to tell him but something was keeping him from doing that, most likely his grandfather's orders. _The man raises me as his son yet does not tell me any of his plans for my future!_

"I cannot tell you, your grandfather made me swear not to," Kevan said, avoiding Damon's piercing gaze.

"I also swore to him that I would never sneak down to the kitchens before dinner but I never kept my word," Damon smiled and his uncle chuckled. "Tell me what is in store for my future."

Kevan furrowed his brow and he appeared to be having an inward battle between loyalty to his brother and his love for Damon. Eventually his uncle's love for him won out. "Your grandfather has put off announcing you as his heir because he wishes to announce your betrothal to Margaery Tyrell at the same time."

Damon sat back in his chair contemplating his uncle's words. He had always imagines he would marry a girl from the Westerlands to strengthen the ties between Lannister and the liege vassals, he hadn't in all his years think that he would marry Margaery. It was an advantageous marriage for the only daughter of the Lord of Highgarden to marry the heir to the Westerlands which would tie the Tyrells to the Baratheons once and for all and it had Tywin Lannister written all over it. Done behind closed doors without anybody knowing about it until it was announced. Damon had never thought of Margaery in the marital sense, but now that his uncle Kevan had talked of the marriage, he began to think of Margaery in a completely different way. They were already friends and she would be able to easily win the westerlords to her side. Damon thought of waking up beside Margaery, looking at her beautiful heart-shaped as her brown curls cascaded down her back, while he fell into her big brown eyes. He could be happy in that marriage, happier than his parents in their marriage.

"Why did my grandfather not want me to know about a betrothal between myself and Margaery?" Damon asked.

Kevan thought long and hard about his choice of words, "He wanted to deliver the news to you in a way where you wouldn't act rashly or do something that would be ill advised."

Damon shot up from his chair, it went skidding onto the floor, his face going red, he knew exactly what his uncle was talking about. "Do not believe for a second that I would act as rashly as you would believe me to! Not after last time!" Damon shouted, spittle flying from his mouth, his voice echoing against the high walls of the room they were in. Two servant girls had scurried away in fear.

His uncle remained calm as Damon vented his rage."You cannot blame us for thinking so, Damon. Epecially after what happened last time."

Damon looked at his uncle in disbelief. "You have the _gall_ to think that I would ever even consider running off! _Especially_ after last time! Do you truly think so little of me? Have I done nothing to prove my loyalty to gr—"

"You have done nothing to prove your loyalty!" Kevan interrupted. The brother of Lord Tywin rarely lost his temper but when he did, it could make the most rebellious soldier fall in line with other men. "All you have proved is that you run away when presented with a daunting task. That is why we kept this from you."

They both stared intensely into each other's eyes, Damon broke it off first. He went to collect his chair off the ground and sat back down sullenly. His uncle leaned into the table and looked Damon in the eyes. "You must believe me Damon, that we kept this from you for your own good. We didn't want what happened with Jeyne Westerling happening again."

"Why? Grandfather has never had a problem with killing babes before why should he suddenly feel different about any other," Damon crossed his arms and stared back at his uncle, he knew he had crossed a line there.

"Don't ever say something like that again! And don't act like you were innocent in all that, you ruined the poor girl, Damon," his uncle whispered it like he was speaking of something forbidden. _Knowing my grandfather it may be forbidden to talk of this._ "Her parents forced her to become a Septa and-"

"And my grandfather killed our child before it ever came into the world," Damon finished for his uncle. They were not the words his uncle was going to say but it was the truth, it was the only truth that mattered. After all the lies that went on in the capital and especially between his family, he just wished he could have an honest conversation for once. Kevan's face then turned into a mask of stone.

"Your grandfather did what he had to do, to save any shame from coming to House Lannister," Kevan explained. _My son wasn't something that would shame us, he was a baby boy who did not deserve to die._ "Besides, the child wasn't even born yet."

"That's not the point!" he shouted.

"Oh? Did you not forgive your grandfather in the end solely because of that point?" Kevan questioned. "I'm going to tell you a story."

"I don't want to hear a story," Damon hissed.

"Too bad, you're going to hear one." His uncle cleared his throat. "Your grandfather may seem a hard man to you, but he's no harder than he's had to be. Our own father was gentle and amiable, but so weak his bannermen mocked him in their cups. Some saw fit to defy him openly. Other lords borrowed his gold and never troubled to repay it. At court they japed of toothless lions. Even his own mistress stole from him. A woman scarcely one step above a whore, and she helped herself to my mother's jewels! It fell to Tywin to restore House Lannister to its proper place. Just as it fell to him to rule this realm, when he was no more than twenty. He bore that heavy burden for twenty years and all it earned him was a mad king's envy. Instead of the honor he deserved, he was made to suffer slights beyond count, yet he gave the Seven Kingdoms peace, plenty and justice. He is a just man."

"That still didn't give him the right to steal my son from me before I even knew him," Damon choked, forcing the tears back, his voice breaking slightly. "Did Lord Tywin tell you that I was to have a son, that's what the babe was, I never saw the body but the Septon that was with . . . that was with Jeyne when it happened told me that he was a boy. The great Lord Tywin probably had one of his men toss the body in a ditch." Damon felt his eyes watering, but he willed himself to not shed any tears. _You are a lion, and lion's do not cry_.

"Whatever Tywin has done, he has done it for the pride of House Lannister," Kevan said, his tone resolute.

"If you took him off the pedestal you seemed to have placed him on, then you would realise how cruel he can really be." Damon took a long gulp of wine from his goblet before he stood up. "Farewell, uncle. I hope your journey back to Casterly Rock will be well."

"Thank you, my prince," Kevan stood up and bowed as Damon left.

Damon left through the nearest door and Lucion followed after him, being smart for once and keeping his mouth shut. Damon walked briskly through the halls of Maegor's Holdfast which were mostly empty except for the odd patrol of guards. As Damon came upon his chambers, he turned to Lucion, "Nobody is allowed in until I come out of that door," he spoke hoarsely. His friend nodded his head in understanding. Damon opened the door and took his boots off immediately, he jumped onto his canopied bed leaving his clothes on and for the first time since he was a child, he cried himself to sleep, the images of a dead grey baby haunting him.


	12. AGOT Eddard IV

_coduss:Damon never really confronts what he feels and just stuffs down deep inside. He pretty much forced himself to forget about what Tywin did to Jeyne because he didn't want to believe his grandfather would do it to him. He would never intentionally confront the Jeyne incident unless forced to and Kevan sort of set him off. Anyway, you'll see next book how he deals with it._

* * *

How long he waited in the quiet of the godswood, he could not say. It was peaceful here. The thick walls shut out the clamor of the castle, and he could hear birds singing, the murmur of crickets, leaves rustling in a gentle wind. The heart tree was an oak, brown and faceless, yet Ned Stark still felt the presence of his gods. His leg did not seem to hurt so much.

Ned thought of why he had come here, all because of an old book with the lineages of all the great families of Westeros. It was one of the last things Jon Arryn had requested before he was poisoned. Ned could not understand at the time why Jon had taken such an interest in it but when Sansa had spoken those words, it had all become clear then. Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen were bastard children of Cersei but the treason didn't stop there, Ned had led to the conclusion that the only way that Cersei could ensure that she had children with green eyes and golden blonde hair was to have them with her brother, the Kingslayer.

That was why Ned was sitting in the Godswood now, waiting for the Queen to give her one last chance to save her children and herself from Robert's wrath. Robert could be merciful if he wished but this was not like any other treason, if Ned told him the truth he would kill Cersei and the children without a second thought and it would be Ned's fault and he would be no better than Tywin Lannister. Ned could still remember the children wrapped up in the cloak, when it was shown to the court. The girl had been stabbed half a hundred times and the boy . . . the boy was unrecognisable, his face was demolished beyond recognition. Ned had then argued with Robert about Lord Tywin facing justice but Robert was deaf to his points and the argument came to an end when Robert had said, "The dragonspawn deserved it."

Ned had ridden off that day to relieve the siege of Storm's End and to save his sister from the Tower of Joy. _Promise me . . ._

She came to him at sunset, as the clouds reddened above the walls and towers. She came alone, as he had bid her. For once she was dressed simply, in leather boots and hunting greens. When she drew back the hood of her brown cloak, he saw the bruise where the king had struck her. The angry plum color had faded to yellow, and the swelling was down, but there was no mistaking it for anything but what it was.

"Why here?" Cersei Lannister asked as she stood over him.

"So the gods can see."

She sat beside him on the grass. Her every move was graceful. Her curling blond hair moved in the wind, and her eyes were green as the leaves of summer. It had been a long time since Ned Stark had seen her beauty, but he saw it now. "I know the truth Jon Arryn died for," he told her.

"Do you?" The queen watched his face, wary as a cat. "Is that why you called me here, Lord Stark? To pose me riddles? Or is it your intent to seize me, as your wife seized my brother?"

"If you truly believed that, you would never have come." Ned touched her cheek gently. "Has he done this before?"

"Once or twice." She shied away from his hand. "Never on the face before. Jaime would have killed him, even if it meant his own life." Cersei looked at him defiantly. "My brother is worth a hundred of your friend."

"Your brother?" Ned said. "Or your lover?"

"Both." She did not flinch from the truth. "Since we were children together. And why not? The Targaryens wed brother to sister for three hundred years, to keep the bloodlines pure. And Jaime and I are more than brother and sister. We are one person in two bodies. We shared a womb together. He came into this world holding my foot, our old maester said. When he is in me, I feel . . . whole." The ghost of a smile flitted over her lips.

"My son Bran . . . "

To her credit, Cersei did not look away. "He saw us. You love your children, do you not?"

Robert had asked him the very same question, the morning of the melee. He gave her the same answer. "With all my heart."

"No less do I love mine."

Ned thought, If it came to that, the life of some child I did not know, against Robb and Sansa and Arya and Bran and Rickon, what would I do? Even more so, what would Catelyn do, if it were Jon's life, against the children of her body? He did not know. He prayed he never would.

Ned stared at her, "All of them? Even Damon?"

Cersei sighed, "Damon especially." Ned could feel the pride in her words. "He was a mistake, I had thought Robert had spilled his seed onto my thigh but somehow, some of it must have gotten through because that month I missed my moon blood. In truth, I thought the child was Jaime's, after Robert had had his way with me I went in search of my brother and we shared a bed that night. When I had found out I was with child again, my joy was beyond words but when Pycelle had told me that he had pulled a black haired baby from my womb I was filled with untold rage."

She stopped and took a deep breath, on the verge of crying. "All that had faded away when I layed my eyes on him, he was _my_ son, and I loved him. It didn't matter that Robert was his father, he was my son. And I couldn't be more proud of the man he has become, he's not a stag like his father, he's my black lion."

The seed is strong, Jon Arryn had cried on his deathbed, and so it was. All those bastards, all with hair as black as night. Grand Maester Malleon recorded the last mating between stag and lion, some ninety years ago, when Tya Lannister wed Gowen Baratheon, third son of the reigning lord. Their only issue, an unnamed boy described in Malleon's tome as a large and lusty lad born with a full head of black hair, died in infancy. Thirty years before that a male Lannister had taken a Baratheon maid to wife. She had given him three daughters and a son, each black-haired. No matter how far back Ned searched in the brittle yellowed pages, always he found the gold yielding before the coal.

"A dozen years," Ned said. "How is it that you have had only one child by the king?"

She lifted her head, defiant. "Your Robert got me with child one more time," she said, her voice thick with contempt. "But that time I had no problem with knowing who the father was, my brother found a woman to cleanse me. He never knew. If truth be told, I can scarcely bear for him to touch me, and I have not let him inside me for years. I know other ways to pleasure him, when he leaves his whores long enough to stagger up to my bedchamber. Whatever we do, the king is usually so drunk that he's forgotten it all by the next morning."

How could they have all been so blind? The truth was there in front of them all the time, written on the children's faces. Ned felt sick. "I remember Robert as he was the day he took the throne, every inch a king," he said quietly. "A thousand other women might have loved him with all their hearts. What did he do to make you hate him so?" Damon had looked every inch of his father as well, except that Ned believed he would do his duty to the realm and not shy away from his responsibilities but Ned didn't know how he would react to finding out his siblings were all bastards.

Cersei's eyes burned, green fire in the dusk, like the lioness that was her sigil. "The night of our wedding feast, the first time we shared a bed, he called me by your sister's name. He was on top of me, in me, stinking of wine, and he whispered Lyanna."

Ned Stark thought of pale blue roses, and for a moment he wanted to weep. "I do not know which of you I pity most."

The queen seemed amused by that. "Save your pity for yourself, Lord Stark. I want none of it."

"You know what I must do."

"Must?" She put her hand on his good leg, just above the knee. "A true man does what he will, not what he must." Her fingers brushed lightly against his thigh, the gentlest of promises. "The realm needs a strong Hand. Joff will not be ready for years yet. No one wants war again, least of all me." Her hand touched his face, his hair. "If friends can turn to enemies, enemies can become friends. Your wife is a thousand leagues away, and my brother has fled. Be kind to me, Ned. I swear to you, you shall never regret it."

"Did you make the same offer to Jon Arryn?"

She slapped him.

"I shall wear that as a badge of honor," Ned said dryly.

"Honor," she spat. "How dare you play the noble lord with me! What do you take me for? You've a bastard of your own, I've seen him. Who was the mother, I wonder? Some Dornish peasant you raped while her holdfast burned? A whore? Or was it the grieving sister, the Lady Ashara? She threw herself into the sea, I'm told. Why was that? For the brother you slew, or the child you stole? Tell me, my honorable Lord Eddard, how are you any different from Robert, or me, or Jaime?"

 _Promise me, Ned . . ._ _Promise me . . ._

"For a start," said Ned, "I do not kill children. You would do well to listen, my lady. I shall say this only once. When the king returns from his hunt, I intend to lay the truth before him. You must be gone by then. You and your children, Joffrey, Tommen and Myrcella, Damon must stay here, and do not flee to Casterly Rock. If I were you, I should take ship for the Free Cities, or even farther, to the Summer Isles or the Port of Ibben. As far as the winds blow."

"Exile," she said. "A bitter cup to drink from."

"A sweeter cup than your father served Rhaegar's children," Ned said, "and kinder than you deserve. Your father and your brothers would do well to go with you. Lord Tywin's gold will buy you comfort and hire swords to keep you safe. You shall need them. I promise you, no matter where you flee, Robert's wrath will follow you, to the back of beyond if need be."

The queen stood. "And what of my wrath, Lord Stark?" she asked softly. Her eyes searched his face. "You should have taken the realm for yourself. It was there for the taking. Jaime told me how you found him on the Iron Throne the day King's Landing fell, and made him yield it up. That was your moment. All you needed to do was climb those steps, and sit. Such a sad mistake."

"I have made more mistakes than you can possibly imagine," Ned said, "but that was not one of them."

"Oh, but it was, my lord," Cersei insisted. "When you play the game of thrones, you win or you die. There is no middle ground."  
She turned up her hood to hide her swollen face and left him there in the dark beneath the oak, amidst the quiet of the godswood, under a blue-black sky. The stars were coming out.


	13. AGOT Damon VI

_"No!" Damon shouted at the shadow of his grandfather. "Wait!" He tried to run to the shadow but his feet were stuck in the ground. "I can explain! You don't need to do this!" Damon then heard a woman's scream, high and shrill, like a banshee. The prince looked to his left and he witnessed the shadow of his first love, Jeyne Westerling, being held back by two soldiers. Damon could see the tears trailing down her dark face, like rivers of pure silver flowing through the midnight sky. He wanted to run to her, to comfort her, to tell her everything would be fine but he couldn't, he still couldn't move._

 _"Damon!" Jeyne's shadow shouted. "Damon! Help me! Our child! Save our child!"_

 _Damon then looked back to his grandfather's shadow and in Lord Tywin's hand was a baby boy,_ Damon's _baby boy. The prince tried to force his legs to move and eventually they did but he moved slowly, he felt like he was trapped in a bog, the mud slowing him down to an agonisingly painful pace but he persevered. He was getting closer, closer to his grandfather, closer to saving his son but as he got closer, Damon saw where Lord Tywin was standing, on a cliff's edge and he was holding his baby boy over the edge. Then Damon tried to move even faster but alas it was to no avail._ Be strong, be strong like a lion, _he told himself._

 _As he got closer to his grandfather and his son, he was beginning to move faster and when he was ten paces from them, he began to sprint at his full pace. Just as he reached his grandfather, Lord Tywin_ _dropped his baby boy, dropped him into the jagged rocks at the bottom of the cliff, in the water. Damon spun and grabbed his grandfather by the scruff of his neck, "Why?" Damon sobbed._

 _His grandfather's shadow looked back at him and in it, he saw the abyss, the end of everything. "You will not bring shame upon House Lannister!"_

 _Damon released his grandfather and threw himself off the cliff after his son and towards the rocks below. He tried to get closer to his son and after an eternity he finally held his son in his arms and his baby boy was crying. It took Damon a moment but he realised that his son wasn't crying, he was, his son was already dead. Damon stared into his baby boy's face, they shared the same eye colour, a strange mix between sapphire and amethyst and they both had hair as black as sin. How did he find out about you? How did Lord Tywin know of Jeyne? Who told him? Who?_

Damon shot up in his bed, he was panting heavily with enough sweat for a small bath. He looked around his room, to find it empty, no one was there, not his grandfather and not poor Jeyne. The door then swung open and Lymond came charging in with his sword drawn and his eyes alert. "It's fine, Lymond, I just had a nightmare." His friend nodded and sheathed his sword, stepping back outside of Damon's chambers, leaving him alone once more, haunted by the grey face of his baby boy, the son he had never known. The prince fell back into bed.

Damon shut his eyes but no matter how much he willed it, sleep would not come. He wasn't sure he wished to fall asleep again because ever since he had dinner with his uncle, he was haunted by the dreams of his unborn child. Damon thought he had moved past it and forgiven his grandfather but knowing that Lord Tywin didn't trust him enough to not do it again brought back the resentment he had held for him.

Eventually Damon just got out of his bed and went to fetch his robe to cover his naked form. He opened the door and ordered for his breakfast to be sent to him and for Lucion to come, he needed someone to talk about his nightmares with, he had barely gotten any sleep since his uncle left for Casterly Rock. Whenever he shut his eyes, he pictured the tiny grey babe floating away in the ocean, while Lord Tywin was standing tall, not even showing any shame in his actions.

Lucion came shortly after a servant took his half-finished breakfast away, looking handsome in a high-collared cream tunic, his sword at his side. "Damon, are you alright? Ser Lymond said he heard you shouting in your sleep." He pulled a chair over and sat beside Damon with a look of concern.

Damon sighed and put his face in his hands. "You remember Jeyne, don't you?"

Lucion's face became a mask of stone then, not betraying any emotion he might be feeling. "Damon, what happened? You had just finally gotten past your grief, when did it come back?" His face betrayed no emotion but his voice was fuelled with concern.

"It all came back when I had dinner with uncle Kevan, we got into a fight and old wounds reopened and memories came back to haunt me," Damon said, his voice drifting away as he looked out the window. His room had a beautiful view of Blackwater Bay, the sun was rising over the bay now, he could see every ship coming into port and every ship leaving. Sometimes he liked to create stories for the ships that came in and out, where they were going, what they carried and where they came from. He and Jeyne had played it on the cliffs overlooking Lannisport.

"Damon," Lucion said, his gloved hand grabbed his jaw, forcing Damon to look at him. "It was not your fault, you couldn't have saved your child, once Lord Tywin knew about Jeyne he wouldn't have let anything stop him from making sure that your baby was never born."

"But how did he find out?" Damon asked him. "I was so careful, I spirited Jeyne away and she was staying in a cabin in the middle of nowhere with a Septon who was sworn to secrecy." He leaned back in his chair and hid his face behind his hands.

"Damon, the Spider is not the only one who has spies in Westeros, your grandfather obviously has people who report everything to him. You tried your best and there was nothing else you could do, you did not fail Jeyne or your babe."

Damon smiled sadly, "I did fail them, thanks to me, my son was never born and Jeyne is spending the rest of her days in a sept no one has ever heard of."

Lucion looked down in disappointment. Although Damon was melancholy he was glad he had such a loyal friend as Lucion, he had never left his side in years and he was the only person he trusted fully, loyal to a fault was his sworn shield. Lucion looked back up to him, "Do you want to stay in your room for the day? I can tell the small council you are feeling ill."

"No, I'm fine," Damon lied.

"We both know that's not true," Lucion smiled, and Damon despite himself let a chuckle escape from his lips. "So, what shall we dress you up in?"

After a few minutes of deliberation, the outfit that they had chosen was a black velvet tunic with a fur-lined high collar. As Lucion helped him into it, his sworn shield told him that he should find a squire to help him with all this. Lucion then took a golden half-cape with a black stag sewn onto it and Damon threw it over one shoulder and he fastened it on with a golden stag's head pin. Lucion fetched his sword belt, Damon tied it around his waste and sheathed his sword in his scabbard.

Damon left the room and as he walked down the hallway, four guardsmen followed him and Lucion. He didn't know exactly where he was going, he just wanted to leave his room and his nightmares behind. After little deliberation he decided to go and see if Myrcella and Tommen was awake, they could play in the gardens like when they were younger.

The prince was torn from his daydream as the royal steward came upon him, "His Grace instructs you to attend him in his chambers. At once." The steward then went back the way he came while Damon followed him to his father's chambers. _Father must be back from his hunt._ Damon had not joined his father preferring to stay in the capital and continue his duties as Master-of-Ships, something he had found oddly enjoyable and it helped to take his mind off of Jeyne.

Ser Barristan Selmy waited at the door of the king's bedchamber. Ser Barristan's face was as pale as his armor. Damon had only to look at him to know that something was dreadfully wrong. The royal steward opened the door. "Prince Damon Baratheon, Master-of-Ships," he announced.

"Bring him here," his father's voice called, strangely thick.

Fires blazed in the twin hearths at either end of the bedchamber, filling the room with a sullen red glare. The heat within was suffocating. The king lay across the canopied bed. At the bedside hovered Grand Maester Pycelle, while his uncle Renly paced restlessly before the shuttered windows. Servants moved back and forth, feeding logs to the fire and boiling wine. His mother sat on the edge of the bed beside her husband. Joffrey was sitting beside their father, worry etched into his face. His guards stopped at the door with Lucion, leaving Damon alone as he walked to his father's bedside.

The king still wore his boots. Damon could see dried mud and blades of grass clinging to the leather where his father's feet stuck out beneath the blanket that covered him. A green doublet lay on the floor, slashed open and discarded, the cloth crusted with red-brown stains. The room smelled of smoke and blood and death.

"My boy," the king whispered when he saw him. His face was pale as milk. "Come . . . closer."

Damon took one step forward and it felt like the heaviest one in his life and then he took another, which felt even heavier than before. After an eternity he found himself kneeling down beside his father's bedside "What . . . ?" he began, his throat clenched.

"It was a boar." His uncle was still in his hunting greens, his cloak spattered with blood.

"A devil more like," the king husked. "My own fault. Too much wine, damn me to hell. Missed my thrust."

"And where was everyone else?" Damon demanded, his voice filling the chamber. "Where was Ser Barristan and the Kingsguard? Where were _you_?" He looked at his uncle with a cold fury.

Renly's mouth twitched. "Robert . . . he commanded us to step aside while he took the boar alone."

The door then opened once more, the royal steward announced, "Lord Stark, Hand of the King."

The injured Lord Stark looked over the entire room, scanning each of their faces before finally falling on his king. Two of his men helped him over to the side of the bed and Damon moved out of his way, searching for the Grand Maester. He grabbed the wizened old man by his chain and brought him in close. "How bad is it?" He demanded, menacingly, he did not want to bandy words with the old man and he wanted answers fast.

"The-the-the k-king . . . " Pycelle sputtered.

Damon shook him, "Speak sense, man!"

He then felt someone touch his arm and he saw that it was his mother, "Calm down, my darling boy." Her voice was quiet and tone sweet.

Damon closed his eyes and took a deep breath, he let go of the Grand Maester and clenched his fists at his side. "The king's wound has mortified, I have done all I can. Only the gods can heal him now, it is a miracle he lived this long as it is."

"How long until . . . ?" Even though it was inevitable, he couldn't bring himself to say it.

"By my estimation, hours at most," the Grand Maester said.

Damon turned back to his father, "Now leave us. The lot of you. I need to speak with Ned."

"Robert, my sweet lord . . . " his mother began.

"I said leave," Robert insisted with a hint of his old fierceness. "What part of that don't you understand, woman?"

His mother gathered up her skirts and her dignity and led the way to the door. His uncle Renly and the others followed. Damon lingered but left with the Grand Maester on his heels. Outside the chamber was a small congregation of people. His uncle stood with the Spider, Ser Barristan and Grand Maester Pycelle. Lucion and the guards were on the outskirts looking in, his mother and Joffrey were on the other side of the door and he went over to them.

Damon put a hand on his brother's shoulder and Joffrey turned to face Damon. For a moment, Damon thought that Joffrey was going to insult him but he did something Damon would have never expected, Joffrey pulled him into a hug. Damon was startled but after a moment of shock he returned the hug. It felt . . . nice to not be at his brother's throat and instead acting as brothers should act, Damon was just saddened that their father had to die to pull them closer together. Then their mother pulled them from each other's grasp and cupped both of their faces with her hands. "My boys," she said, emotionally, a tear trickled down her cheek as she smiled.

"Come, we should get back to Myrcella and Tommen and give them the news before they hear it from anyone else," his mother began to turn and Joffrey made to follow.

"Actually, mother," his mother turned and looked at Damon. "I would prefer to stay with father, in his final hours."

His mother visibly stiffened at that but she smiled anyway, "Of course, come Joffrey." His brother spared him one last glance before following their mother down the hallway, their footsteps echoing off of the walls. Damon watched them leaving until they turned a corner and he could no longer see them.

Lucion walked up beside him, the four other guardsmen following him. "Go get Ser Lymond and tell him to bring the rest of my guard here, my father won't be bothered in his final hours," Damon ordered the man to Lucion's left. He bowed and scurried off to find Ser Lymond.

The hall was as silent as a crypt, nobody dared to speak, the only sound came from the crackling of the fire that could be heard from inside his father's chamber. Ser Barristan looked defeated in white armour, Damon had never seen him look so old in all his years. Lord Varys looked sorrowful but Damon was sure he did not truly feel that way. Uncle Renly looked distraught in his bloodstained hunting greens, looking ten years older than before. Pycelle seemed tired and kept tugging at his chain. The servants all looked down at their feet, none of them moving an inch.

When the door opened, all looked expectantly at Lord Stark. "Give him milk of the poppy," he told the Grand Maester, who scurried past Ned with the servants following suit. The Hand was sweating from the sweltering heat inside his father's chambers and he was visibly pained by his injured leg.

"My brother was always strong," Renly said, breaking the silence. "Not wise, perhaps, but strong. He slew the boar. His entrails were sliding from his belly, yet somehow he slew the boar." His voice was full of wonder. Damon could picture that in his head, his father's stomach being pierced by the boar's tusks but out of sheer spite, he killed the boar before the boar could finish him off. It was something his father would do.

"Robert was never a man to leave the battleground so long as a foe remained standing," Eddard told them.

The Hand then faced Ser Barristan, "See that no one disturbs Robert's rest without leave from me."

"My lord, may I stay by my father's side in his last hours?" Damon asked.

Lord Stark nodded and Damon walked by him and into the room, the fires still blazed in the twin hearths at either end of the bedchamber, giving the room a red tint. The heat within nearly suffocated him but Damon walked to his father's beside and sat down in the chair Joffrey had used not long ago.

As Damon sat beside his dying father, who was enjoying a peaceful sleep before he would sleep eternal, he couldn't help but regret that he hadn't tried to be close to him when he was younger. There was so many things left unsaid, things that he wanted to tell him and Damon hoped that his father had many things to tell him, but he would never hear them, all because Damon pushed him away. Everything that his father did that made Damon annoyed when he was younger, he now yearned for it. He wanted to hear his father's drunken boasts one last time, he wanted to go on one more hunt with him, he wanted to share one last drink with him. Damon had always thought that his father would love forever, he didn't like the man his father was but he was still his father. If there were any gods this would be there greatest cruelty, to kill those that should have more time in the world of the living.

Damon sat in the chair as the sun rose higher and higher into the sky, the hours seemed to blend together and Damon couldn't tell for the life of him how long he had been in that chair. The Grand Maester was long gone but he left some milk of the poppy in case his father woke up again and he showed Damon what to do. The only people in the room was Damon, his father and the servants, who scurried back and forth between the twin hearths. They came back and forth, feeding the hearths with logs and wine. There was only one other person who came in and left. His uncle Renly but they shared no words with each other, they just stared at their fallen king. Renly left as soon as he came, leaving Damon with the servants once more.

Eventually Damon barked at the servants to leave him and his father alone and they yelped in fright as they left the king's chambers. Damon returned to his seat and stared at his father and tried to imagine him as the warrior king he had once been. He tried to imagine him without the fat but no matter how hard he tried to summon the image, he only saw the fat king before him. The prince left his seat annoyed, and he began to stoke the fires, the heat was welcome because of the cold feeling he felt inside. When he was done, he returned to the bedside and looked at his father. He noticed his chest was no longer moving and Damon no longer heard his father's heavy laboured breathing. Damon took a dagger on top of a locker and held it to his father's nose. There was no change on the blade. Damon sighed deeply and willed back any tears that attempted to break through his eyes.

Damon opened the door of the king's chambers and everyone there looked at him.

"The King is dead!"

"Long live the King!"


	14. AGOT The Sworn Shield

Lucion watched as his charge went back into the king's chambers, his face paler than Ser Barristan's white enamelled plate, creating a stark contrast with his black hair, which was plastered to his forehead. Lucion could feel the heat from the twin hearths in the chambers from where he was standing. The blonde knight thought of following his friend into the king's chambers to comfort him but he decided against it. _He needs some time alone._ Lucion then turned back around and looked at each of the guards standing vigil. Just in front of the doors was Lucion, the fabled Barristan the Bold and the bearded Ser Lymond. One-ear Tom, Addam Hill, Long Legs Leo and Strong Jon were all standing on the opposite side of the hall. Young Willem, Black Beric, Tywald Lannister of Lannisport and Hard Harry were standing guard in the hallway to Lucion's left. Hew the Midget, Orange Osric, Scarred Sam and Blind Balon stood guard in the hallway to his right. The best swords Casterly Rock had to offer and they all looked crestfallen. Lucion had to admit that he was sad as well, because King Robert was dead, the man who killed Rhaegar Targaryen on the banks of the Trident, the man who wrenched the Iron Throne from the Targaryens had died in a hunting accident. _Not the poetic ending the bards would like._

Lucion had still remembered the first time he had seen Robert Baratheon, he was ten years old at the time and it was after the Sack of King's Landing. Lucion had not been a part of it but he remembered the devastation he had seen as he rode at the side of Tywin Lannister through the city. Many of the buildings had been set ablaze and corpses littered the street, mothers and their children were in each other's arms as they lay dead on the ground, some of the men's cold dead hands held pitchforks and axes. The wiser citizens stayed in their homes, boarded up their windows and barricaded the doors, sometimes even that wasn't enough, some of the fires had set the cruder homes to be burnt to ashes.

King Robert had just arrived in the Throne Room, Lord Tywin their to greet him along with Eddard Stark, the cold Lord of Winterfell, who had arrived shortly after them with the army from the Trident. Robert was everything that Lucion had pictured, he was tall and strong, a black mane matching his soot black armour, a golden crowned stag tunic thrown over it. Slung over his shoulder was his warhammer, the one that had killed Rhaegar Targaryen, the one that had won him the Iron Throne. Lucion had stood in awe of the warrior king and he was deaf to all that was said between the great lords because he was so entranced with the king. Lucion swore that the king had smiled at him that day but if he did, the king didn't remember him because when he was appointed as Damon's sworn shield, the king had no recollection of him.

The hall was completely silent, you could hear the crackling of the fires if you listened carefully and when Leo coughed, it echoed off of the walls and the young guardsmen looked down at his greaves in embarrassment, red-faced. It was at that moment that Lucion realised he was the only person their who wasn't wearing armour. It made him feel naked and exposed, all of Damon's personal guard were wearing the golden and crimson Lannister armour with the lion half-helms either under their arms or strapped to their skulls. Lymond was wearing his grey plate with the dog's head of House Westford imprinted onto the chest plate. Ser Barristan would have looked like a heroic knight from the tales if his white Kingsguard armour wasn't spattered with blood and he wasn't as pale faced as his armour.

As the time passed the bells of the Grand Sept rang for the dead king, they could be heard loud and clear in the Red Keep so Lucion guessed that the smallfolk all knew that they had a new king to celebrate. Lucion found it hard to believe that Joffrey would be the anointed King of the Seven Kingdoms soon. He always knew that it would come about but he just didn't think it would be like this. With that little shit on the Iron Throne, Lucion suspected that Damon would want to leave the capital soon enough. It was bad here with Joffrey as the Crown Prince but since he is King now, there would be nobody to stop Joffrey from doing anything he liked. Lucion wondered where Damon would want to go, a tour of the Free Cities would be nice, they could see the Magisters of Pentos, the pleasure houses of Lys and the Volantene Triarchy. Lucion doubted Damon would want to go back to the Westerlands after the closed wound that was his grief for Jeyne Westerling had reopened.

 _Jeyne._ Lucion remembered the girl perfectly, her heart-shaped face, her big brown eyes and her small figure. _It wasn't my fault,_ Lucion told himself. _How was I supposed to know that Lord Tywin would take such drastic measures._ Lucion's betrayal had earned his sister a marriage to Addam Marbrand, a marriage that would have been impossible to get if it wasn't for Lucion. _I did it for her,_ Lucion told himself, _I did it for Lanna._

Footsteps began to echo off the walls and it dragged Lucion away from his dark thoughts. Lucion looked to the source of the noise and the royal steward had come back. Scarred Sam and Blind Balon both moved in front of the royal steward, halting his approach. The steward looked expectantly at Lucion but he made no move to call them off, he wouldn't let anyone disturb Damon in his mourning. The man puffed up like a blowfish but he eventually just said what he came to say, "His Grace, King Joffrey, orders Ser Barristan Selmy to the Throne Room."

Lucion scoffed silently, _the bastard is already calling himself king before his father's corpse is cold._ Everyone looked at Ser Barristan and for the first time since Lucion had met the knight, he looked truly old, the creases on his face became clearer, the crow's feet around his eyes became more distinct and his eyes looked tired. But still, he stood tall and marched off to serve his new king. _There goes the greatest knight of my lifetime and now he goes to serve one of the cruellest princes to have ever lived, how the mighty have fallen._ Lucion moved closer to Lymond, the old dog was looking tired with large bags under his eyes. It seemed that no one in the Red Keep was sleeping well.

After that, the hours melded together as the time passed, some of the guards had begun talking in hushed voices but Lucion was not inclined to join them, he was still trapped in a bowl of his own misery. He hoped that when he left the Red Keep he could leave his guilt and shame behind with it but he knew he could not be so lucky as that. Lucion would put on his smile, though, he would make quips and try to lighten the mood but above all, he would follow Damon, he owed his friend that much after what he'd done. He was done with Lord Tywin, Lucion made a silent pact there and then, he would follow Damon to all seven hells if he asked, he would face the Others themselves.

That was when Lucion heard the thudding of heavy boots and the jangling of chainmail and plate. He thought nothing of it until he saw Ser Preston Greenfield turn the corner and following behind him was ten Lannister soldiers. Lucion walked forward and met Ser Preston face to face, stopping him from coming any further and the soldiers behind him stopped with the Kingsguard. Ser Preston's white armour was polished to a shine, any trace of the hunt he had been on and the evidence that he had failed his king was gone. He couldn't help but notice that all of the soldiers had their hands on their swords so Lucion mimicked them and moved his hand to the golden pommel of his blade.

"May I help you, Ser?" Lucion asked, coolly.

Ser Preston looked up at him with his beady little eyes. "We have come to take the traitor, Damon Baratheon, into custody for plotting to usurp the throne of the one true king, Joffrey Baratheon!"

Ser Preston drew his sword and Lucion drew his, he heard the rasping of blades being drawn behind him and the ten behind Preston did the same. "Over my dead body!" Lucion shouted.

"That was the plan."

Ser Preston lunged at him then and Lucion parried the blade just in time to push it aside. Willem and Beric charged to his side and the three of them kept the other soldiers at bay in the narrow hallway. While Beric had already cut down his first man, Lucion was still parrying the blows of Ser Preston. Although he was short he was quick with a blade and skilful as well, you didn't get the white cloak without at least some martial abilities. _Except for Ser Boros._ Lucion parried the knights sword once more and he quickly slashed at Ser Preston, forcing him to retreat a few paces.

But with Ser Preston leaving the space in front of Lucion open, it just made a hole that another soldier filled quite quickly. This one was not half as skilled as Ser Preston and he left his left thigh open after his first thrust. Lucion pounced on the opportunity and hamstrung the bastard, forcing the man to his knees. "Mercy!" he yelled, but his prayers fell on deaf ears as Lucion opened his throat up in one sweep.

The white knight was once more facing him but this time Lucion was prepared and gave a quick flurry of blows that were too fast for Ser Preston to deal with. Greenfield was stumbling onto his back when Lucion was done with his attacks and just as he was about to take the other knight's life, another soldier lunged at him. Lucion parried the blow but the sword was deflected into Young Willem's side forcing the knight to a knee and allowing his opponent to kill him. In a frenzy, Lucion swung his blade and took the head clean off the man that had stabbed Willem in the side.

That didn't stop the damage that losing Willem had caused. The enemy poured into the gap left open at Willem's death before someone could fill it. Lucion looked to his other side just in time to see Beric being killed by Ser Preston, his blade bloody. Rather than being overtaken, Lucion moved back to where there were more allies. Hard Harry threw himself at the soldiers killing two of them in quick succession before his hand was cut off by a third and a fourth took his life. _Foolhardy, like always._

Lucion was able to split open Harry's killer's head and Tywald was able to cleave the other's arm off. He turned and saw Strong Jon crushing a man's chest with his warhammer while holding another at bay. Lucion was then left with parrying Ser Preston's vicious attack until the short knight suddenly stopped and began to look around. He saw that all of the men he had brought with him had been killed and he was the last man standing. The short man threw his sword to ground, turned around and ran with his tail between his legs. Lucion thought to give chase but his duty wasn't to kill Ser Preston.

Lucion looked at his sword and saw it was drenched in blood as was both of his forearms. He wiped his sword clean on the red cloak of a corpse. "Get Damon," he told One-Ear Tom. "We need to leave quickly!"

The man nodded and moved quickly, running through the double doors and returning with his prince a few seconds later. "Seven Hells!" Damon swore as he looked at the corpses, his half-cape was gone but his sword remained by his side. _Good, he'll need it before long,_ Lucion thought. "Lucion?" Damon said, as if noticing him for the first time. "What happened here?"

"I don't know, Ser Preston said that you were to be arrested for treason, for plotting to steal the Iron Throne," Lucion walked over the corpses to his friend.

"What? I did no such thing!" Damon shouted, enraged, his nostril's flaring. "I never wanted that over glorified chair!"

"We know that, Damon," Lymond assured, his sword drawn but not wetted with blood like Lucion's had been. "But we can't make sense of this now, Ser Preston will be back soon and with more men! We must leave now!"

Lucion nodded, "I agree."

"What? No, why should I run? I've done nothing," Damon told them through gritted teeth, his fists clenched.

"That is true, my prince," Lymond said, sounding like a gentle giant. "But we are tasked with your safety and right now we need to move you to a safer place."

Damon slumped his shoulders, resigned to this defeat. "Very well, where shall we go?" Damon questioned. "Casterly Rock will be the first place they look and we can't stay in King's Landing."

"Your Grace, if I may?" Blind Balon broke into the conversation. Damon nodded for him to continue. "I've a brother who lives in Duskendale and he'd take you in as sure as peas if I asked him. You could stay there as long as you'd like."

Damon thought for a moment before nodding, "Very good, we'll go to Duskendale."

"All right, Strong Jon, Sam, you two lead the way," Lucion said and both men nodded. He would have put Hard Harry in the front but sadly he wouldn't be seeing anymore of his foolhardiness or bad jokes. "Everyone else behind us! Osric, Long Legs, you guard the rear." Both of the men moved towards the back of the group. "All right, let's move if anyone makes to stop you, cut them down! Our objective is to get the prince to safety! And that means to get him as far away from hear as is possible!"

They ran off then, down the hallway to the exit of Maegor's Holdfast. Lucion ran beside Damon who had drawn his sword and Lymond was just behind them. They didn't run into anyone in the holdfast but they heard everything. He could hear the wailing of little girls and the sound of sword's clashing. They seemed to echo off of the red walls, carrying the noise to whoever was there to hear it. The walls looked redder than usual, they looked crimson to Lucion, as if they were drenched with buckets of blood but he was sure that it was his imagination playing tricks on him.

They ran to song of steel and the women's wails until they exited the Red Keep, that was when they ran into their next opponents. Four soldiers with bloodied swords as crimson as their cloaks, they were standing over the bodies of the Stark guards. _What does Stark have to do with any of this? Joffrey is as mad as Aerys._ The four soldiers would have been wise to turn away but their blood was up and nothing could stop them from doing something foolish.

"Hey! That's the traitor pri-" the soldier never finished his sentence as Strong Jon's warhammer crushed his head into a bloody mess. Sam killed the closest one to him and the remaining two charged. One struck Jon's shoulder but his pauldron took the brunt of the blow, enraged Jon swung his hammer and launched the soldier into the air, landing with a sickening crunch. Lucion killed the remaining man, thrusting his sword into the back of his neck while he was focused on Sam.

Lucion asked if Jon was alright but the man just banged on his chest and declared, "It'll take more than a flea bite like that to bring the Strong Jon down." He laughed and Lucion smiled.

They then ran across the courtyard, returning to their former positions before their scuffle with the four soldiers. The walls were bustling with goldcloaks but they must have mistaken Lucion's group with Joffrey's soldiers because they made no move to stop him. They stables were empty except for the corpses of Stark's men draped across the floor and onto the back of the wagon. Damon ran to Ebony, the large destrier had already been saddled, by who Lucion couldn't tell but he was thankful that he was. Lucion himself ran to the nearest saddled horse, a brown courser.

From outside the stables, Lucion heard the rhythmic beating of boots on the ground. "Lucion!" he heard Lymond's voice outside, booming over everything else. Lucion then rode to the stable's entrance and his heart fell. They were surrounded, a semi-circle of over fifty soldiers, all armed with swords and shields, formed around the stables.

"You will hand over the traitor Damon Baratheon and your lives will be spared!" Ser Preston shouted at them from the edge of the semi-circle. Lucion cursed the Seven for not giving them more time.

"What are we going to do?" Damon asked, his head flickering from Greenfield to Lymond.

" _We_ are going to stay and fight, my prince," Lymond told him. "But you will make for the drawbridge before it is pulled up and hope to the Seven that the gate is open."

"I can't leave you he-" Damon never got to finish because Lymond interrupted him again.

"That's an order! Lucion you go with him and protect him with your life!" Lymond's voice brokered no argument so when he turned around to face Ser Preston, Lucion tightened his grip on his reins.

"Form up!" Lymond shouted and their group and moved closer together with weapons at the ready.

Lucion couldn't see his face clearly under the helmet but he was sure that Ser Preston was smiling. He whipped on his reins and galloped towards the closest man, running him over with his horse and Damon crushed his chest as he followed Lucion. "After them!" Ser Preston shouted and then half of the soldiers chased after them. The horses were too fast and soon enough, both Lucion and Damon were over the drawbridge and charging towards the open portcullis.

Lucion thanked the Old Gods and the New for keeping the gate open. They charged across the cobbled square, trampling anyone who got in their way, Lucion never looked away from the open bronze gates and the raised portcullis. Time seemed to slow as he neared it, he couldn't quite believe that it was open. _Who would have left it open?_

The question remained unanswered as Lucion passed underneath the gatehouse and out the other side. Lucion paused not knowing which way to go. He looked around and everywhere he saw goldcloaks. Damon stopped beside him and asked, "Where to from here?"

Lucion didn't have the answer as the goldcloaks spun on them and began to run at them. Damon then took the initiative and galloped towards the nearest group, swinging his sword low and beheading the watchmen with one powerful blow. Lucion followed him and they became lost in the endless winding streets of King's Landing, leaving the goldcloaks behind and the Red Keep as well.


	15. AGOT Sansa II

The walls of the throne room had been stripped bare, the hunting tapestries that King Robert loved taken down and stacked in the corner in an untidy heap.

Ser Mandon Moore went to take his place under the throne beside two of his fellows of the Kingsguard. Sansa hovered by the door, for once unguarded. The queen had given her freedom of the castle as a reward for being good, yet even so, she was escorted everywhere she went. "Honour guards for my daughter-to-be," the queen called them, but they did not make Sansa feel honoured. They scared her but if that was the price she had to bear for her to be betrothed to Joffrey once more then so be it.

"Freedom of the castle" meant that she could go wherever she chose within the Red Keep so long as she promised not to go beyond the walls, a promise Sansa had been more than willing to give. She couldn't have gone beyond the walls anyway. The gates were watched day and night by Janos Slynt's gold cloaks, and Lannister house guards were always about as well. Besides, even if she could leave the castle, where would she go? She couldn't leave Lady or Nymeria, who were both chained in the kennels. It was enough that she could walk in the yard, pick flowers in Myrcella's garden, and visit the sept to for her father. Sometimes she prayed in the godswood as well, since the Starks kept the old gods.

This was the first court session of Joffrey's reign, so Sansa looked about nervously. A line of Lannister house guards stood beneath the western windows, a line of gold-cloaked City Watchmen beneath the east. Of smallfolk and commoners, she saw no sign, but under the gallery a cluster of lords great and small milled restlessly. There were no more than twenty, where a hundred had been accustomed to wait upon King Robert.

Sansa slipped in among them, murmuring greetings as she worked her way toward the front. She recognized black-skinned Jalabhar Xho, gloomy Ser Aron Santagar, the Redwyne twins Horror and Slobber . . . only none of them seemed to recognize her. Or if they did, they shied away as if she had the grey plague. Sickly Lord Gyles covered his face at her approach and feigned a fit of coughing, and when funny drunken Ser Dontos started to hail her, Ser Balon Swann whispered in his ear and he turned away.

And so many others were missing. _Where had the rest of them gone?_ Sansa wondered. Vainly, she searched for friendly faces. Not one of them would meet her eyes. It was as if she had become a ghost, dead before her time.

Grand Maester Pycelle was seated alone at the council table, seemingly asleep, his hands clasped together atop his beard. She saw Lord Varys hurry into the hall, his feet making no sound. A later Lord Baelish entered through the tall doors in the rear, smiling. He chatted amiably with Ser Balon and Ser Dontos as he made his way to the front. Butterflies fluttered nervously in Sansa's stomach. _I shouldn't be afraid,_ she told herself. _I have nothing to be afraid of, it will all come out well, Joff loves me and the queen does too, she said so._

A herald's rang out. "All hail His Grace, Joffrey of the Houses Baratheon and Lannister, the First of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. All hail his lady mother, Cersei of House Lannister, Queen Regent, Light of the West, and Protector of the Realm."

Ser Barristan Selmy, resplendent in his white plate, led them in. Ser Arys Oakheart escorted the queen, while Ser Boros Blount walked beside Joffrey, so six of the Kingsguard were now in the hall, all the White Swords save Jaime Lannister alone. Her prince—no, her king now!—took the steps of the Iron Throne two at a time, while his mother was seated with the council. Joff wore plush black velvets slashed with crimson, a shimmering cloth-of-gold cape with a high collar, and on his head a golden crown crusted with rubies and black diamonds.

When Joffrey turned to look out over the hall, his eye caught Sansa's. He smiled, seated himself, and spoke. "It is a king's duty to punish the disloyal and reward those who are true. Grand Maester Pycelle, I command you to read my decrees."

Pycelle pushed himself to his feet. He was clad in a magnificent robe of thick red velvet, with an ermine collar and shiny gold fastenings. From a drooping sleeve, heavy with gilded scrollwork, he drew a parchment, unrolled it, and began to read a long list of names, commanding each in the name of king and council to present themselves and swear their fealty to Joffrey. Failing that, they would be adjudged traitors, their lands and titles forfeit to the throne.

The names he read made Sansa hold her breath. Lord Stannis Baratheon, his lady wife, his daughter. Lord Renly Baratheon. Both Lord Royces and their sons. Ser Loras Tyrell. Lord Mace Tyrell, his brothers, uncles, sons. The red priest, Thoros of Myr. Lord Beric Dondarrion. Lady Lysa Arryn and her son, the little Lord Robert. Lord Hoster Tully, his brother Ser Brynden, his son Ser Edmure. Lord Jason Mallister. Lord Bryce Caron of the Marches. Lord Tytos Blackwood. Lord Walder Frey and his heir Ser Stevron. Lord Karyl Vance. Lord Jonos Bracken. Lady Sheila Whent. Doran Martell, Prince of Dorne, and all his sons. _So many,_ she thought as Pycelle read on and on, _it will take a whole flock of ravens to send out all of these commands._

And at the end, near last, came the names Sansa had been dreading. Lady Catelyn Stark. Robb Stark. Brandon Stark, Rickon Stark, Arya Stark. Sansa stifled a gasp. Arya. They wanted Arya to present herself and swear an oath . . . it must mean her sister had fled on the galley, she must be safe at Winterfell by now . . .

Grand Maester Pycelle rolled up the list, tucked it up his left sleeve, and pulled another parchment from his right. He cleared his throat and resumed. "In the place of the traitor Eddard Stark, it is the wish of His Grace that Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West, take up the office of Hand of the King, to speak with his voice, lead his armies against his enemies, and carry out his royal will. So the king has decreed. The small council consents.

"In the place of the traitor Damon Baratheon, it is the wish of His Grace that his lady mother, the Queen Regent Cersei Lannister, who has ever been his staunchest support, be seated upon his small council, that she may help him rule wisely and with justice. So the king has decreed. The small council consents."

Sansa heard a murmuring from the lords around her, but it was quickly stilled. Pycelle continued.

"It is also the wish of His Grace that his loyal servant, Janos Slynt, Commander of the City Watch of King's Landing, be at once raised to the rank of lord and granted the ancient seat of Harrenhal with all its attendant lands and incomes, and that his sons and grandsons shall hold these honors after him until the end of time. It is moreover his command that Lord Slynt be seated immediately upon his small council, to assist in the governance of the realm. So the king has decreed. The small council consents."

Sansa glimpsed motion from the corner of her eye as Janos Slynt made his entrance. This time the muttering was louder and angrier. Proud lords whose houses went back thousands of years made way reluctantly for the balding, frog-faced commoner as he marched past. Golden scales had been sewn onto the black velvet of his doublet and rang together softly with each step. His cloak was checked black-and-gold satin. Two ugly boys who must have been his sons went before him, struggling with the weight of a heavy metal shield as tall as they were. For his sigil he had taken a bloody spear, gold on a night-black field. The sight of it raised goose prickles up and down Sansa's arms.

As Lord Slynt took his place, Grand Maester Pycelle resumed. "It is the wish if His Grace that all lands and titles of the traitorous Damon Baratheon be stripped from him at once. Damon Baratheon will be henceforth removed from the line of succession and his sons and grandsons will have no claim on the Iron Throne. And if it is known that any lord provides safe harbour to this traitor, they will be treated as traitors themselves. So the king has decreed. The small council consents." _Damon,_ Sansa cursed the name, the prince was the reason her father was in the dungeons and why she was treated this way, if it wasn't for his serpent's tongue, Sansa's father would never have committed anything against her beloved Joff. Arya would still be here and Septa Mordane would still be here and Vayon Poole would still be here, all would be well, if it wasn't for Damon.

"Lastly, in these times of treason and turmoil, with our beloved Robert so lately dead, it is the view of the council that the life and safety of King Joffrey is of paramount importance . . . " He looked to the queen.

Cersei stood. "Ser Barristan Selmy, stand forth."

Ser Barristan had been standing at the foot of the Iron Throne, as still as any statue, but now he went to one knee and bowed his head. "Your Grace, I am yours to command."

"Rise, Ser Barristan," Cersei Lannister said. "You may remove your helm."

"My lady?" Standing, the old knight took off his high white helm, though he did not seem to understand why.

"You have served the realm long and faithfully, good ser, and every man and woman in the Seven Kingdoms owes you thanks. Yet now I fear your service is at an end. It is the wish of king and council that you lay down your heavy burden."

"My . . . burden? I fear I . . . I do not . . . "

The new-made lord, Janos Slynt, spoke up, his voice heavy and blunt. "Her Grace is trying to tell you that you are relieved as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard."

The tall, white-haired knight seemed to shrink as he stood there, scarcely breathing. "Your Grace," he said at last. "The Kingsguard is a Sworn Brotherhood. Our vows are taken for life. Only death may relieve the Lord Commander of his sacred trust."

"Whose death, Ser Barristan?" The queen's voice was soft as silk, but her words carried the whole length of the hall. "Yours, or your king's?"

"You let my father die," Joffrey said accusingly from atop the Iron Throne. "You're too old to protect anybody."

Sansa watched as the knight peered up at his new king. She had never seen him look his years before, yet now he did. "Your Grace," he said. "I was chosen for the White Swords in my twenty-third year. It was all I had ever dreamed, from the moment I first took sword in hand. I gave up all claim to my ancestral keep. The girl I was to wed married my cousin in my place, I had no need of land or sons, my life would be lived for the realm. Ser Gerold Hightower himself heard my vows . . . to ward the king with all my strength . . . to give my blood for his . . . I fought beside the White Bull and Prince Lewyn of Dorne . . . beside Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. Before I served your father, I helped shield King Aerys, and his father Jaehaerys before him . . . three kings . . . "

"And all of them dead," Littlefinger pointed out.

"Your time is done," Cersei Lannister announced. "Joffrey requires men around him who are young and strong. The council has determined that Ser Jaime Lannister will take your place as the Lord Commander of Sworn Brothers of the White Swords."

"The Kingslayer," Ser Barristan said, his voice hard with contempt. "The false knight who profaned his blade with the blood of the king he had sworn to defend."

"Have a care for your words, ser," the queen warned. "You are speaking of our beloved brother, your king's own blood."

Lord Varys spoke, gentler than the others. "We are not unmindful of your service, good ser. Lord Tywin Lannister has generously agreed to grant you a handsome tract of land north of Lannisport, beside the sea, the keep that was gifted to Damon Baratheon before he showed his traitorous beliefs."

Ser Barristan looked up sharply. "A hall to die in, and men to bury me. I thank you, my lords . . . but I spit upon your pity." He reached up and undid the clasps that held his cloak in place, and the heavy white garment slithered from his shoulders to fall in a heap on the floor. His helmet dropped with a clang. "I am a knight," he told them. He opened the silver fastenings of his breastplate and let that fall as well. "I shall die a knight."

"A naked knight, it would seem," quipped Littlefinger.

They all laughed then, Joffrey on his throne, and the lords standing attendance, Janos Slynt and Queen Cersei and Sandor Clegane and even the other men of the Kingsguard, the five who had been his brothers until a moment ago. _Surely that must have hurt the most,_ Sansa thought. Her heart went out to the gallant old man as he stood shamed and red-faced, too angry to speak. Finally he drew his sword.

Sansa heard someone gasp. Ser Boros and Ser Meryn moved forward to confront him, but Ser Barristan froze them in place with a look that dripped contempt. "Have no fear, sers, your king is safe . . . no thanks to you. Even now, I could cut through the five of you as easy as a dagger cuts cheese. If you would serve under the Kingslayer, not a one of you is fit to wear the white." He flung his sword at the foot of the Iron Throne. "Here, boy. Melt it down and add it to the others, if you like. It will do you more good than the swords in the hands of these five. Perhaps Prince Damon will chance to sit on it when he takes your throne."

He took the long way out, his steps ringing loud against the floor and echoing off the bare stone walls. Lords and ladies parted to let him pass. Not until the pages had closed the great oak-and-bronze doors behind him did Sansa hear sounds again: soft voices, uneasy stirrings, the shuffle of papers from the council table. "He called me boy," Joffrey said peevishly, sounding younger than his years. "He talked about that usurper Damon too."

"Idle talk," said Varys the eunuch. "Without meaning . . . "

"He could be making plots with my brother. I want him seized and questioned." No one moved. Joffrey raised his voice. "I said, I want him seized!"

Janos Slynt rose from the council table. "My gold cloaks will see to it, Your Grace."

"Good," said King Joffrey. Lord Janos strode from the hall, his ugly sons double-stepping to keep up as they lugged the great metal shield with the arms of House Slynt.

"Your Grace," Littlefinger reminded the king. "If we might resume, the seven are now six. We find ourselves in need of a new sword for your Kingsguard."

Joffrey smiled. "Tell them, Mother."

"The king and council have determined that no man in the Seven Kingdoms is more fit to guard and protect His Grace than his sworn shield, Sandor Clegane."

"How do you like that, dog?" King Joffrey asked.

The Hound's scarred face was hard to read. He took a long moment to consider. "Why not? I have no lands nor wife to forsake, and who'd care if I did?" The burned side of his mouth twisted. "But I warn you, I'll say no knight's vows."

"The Sworn Brothers of the Kingsguard have always been knights," Ser Boros said firmly.

"Until now," the Hound said in his deep rasp, and Ser Boros fell silent.

When the king's herald moved forward, Sansa realized the moment was almost at hand. She smoothed down the cloth of her skirt nervously. She was dressed in mourning, as a sign of respect for the dead king, but she had taken special care to make herself beautiful. Her gown was the ivory silk that the queen had given her, the one Arya had ruined, but she'd had them dye it black and you couldn't see the stain at all. She had fretted over her jewelry for hours and finally decided upon the elegant simplicity of a plain silver chain.

The herald's voice boomed out. "If any man in this hall has other matters to set before His Grace, let him speak now or go forth and hold his silence."

Sansa quailed. _Now, she told herself, I must do it now. Gods give me courage._ She took one step, then another. Lords and knights stepped aside silently to let her pass, and she felt the weight of their eyes on her. _I must be as strong as my lady mother._ "Your Grace," she called out in a soft, tremulous voice.

The height of the Iron Throne gave Joffrey a better vantage point than anyone else in the hall. He was the first to see her. "Come forward, my lady," he called out, smiling.

His smile emboldened her, made her feel beautiful and strong. _He does love me, he does_. Sansa lifted her head and walked toward him, not too slow and not too fast. She must not let them see how nervous she was.

"The Lady Sansa, of House Stark," the herald cried.

She stopped under the throne, at the spot where Ser Barristan's white cloak lay puddled on the floor beside his helm and breastplate. "Do you have some business for king and council, Sansa?" the queen asked from the council table.

"I do." She knelt on the cloak, so as not to spoil her gown, and looked up at her prince on his fearsome black throne. "As it please Your Grace, I ask mercy for my father, Lord Eddard Stark, who was the Hand of the King." She had practiced the words a hundred times.

The queen sighed. "Sansa, you disappoint me. What did I tell you about traitor's blood?"

"Your father has committed grave and terrible crimes, my lady," Grand Maester Pycelle intoned.

"Ah, poor sad thing," sighed Varys. "She is only a babe, my lords, she does not know what she asks."

Sansa had eyes only for Joffrey. He must me, he must, she thought. The king shifted on his seat, "Let her speak," he commanded. "I want to hear what she says."

"Thank you, Your Grace." Sansa smiled, a shy secret smile, just for him. He was listening. She knew he would.

"Treason is a noxious weed," Pycelle declared solemnly. "It must be torn up, root and stem and seed, lest new traitors sprout from every roadside."

"Do you deny your father's crime?" Lord Baelish asked.

"No, my lords." Sansa knew better than that. "I know he must be punished. All I ask is mercy. I know my lord father must regret what he did. He was King Robert's friend and he loved him, you all know he loved him. He never wanted to be Hand until the king asked him. They must have lied to him. Lord Renly or Prince Damon or . . . or somebody, they must have lied, otherwise . . . "

King Joffrey leaned forward, hands grasping the arms of the throne. Broken sword points fanned out between his fingers. "He said I wasn't the true king, that my brother was the heir to my father's throne. Why did he say that?"

"His leg was broken," Sansa replied eagerly. "It hurt ever so much, Maester Pycelle was giving him milk of the poppy, and they say that milk of the poppy fills your head with clouds. Otherwise he would never have said it."

Varys said, "A child's faith . . . such innocence . . . and yet, they say wisdom oft comes from the mouths of babes."

"Treason is treason," Pycelle replied at once.

Joffrey rocked restlessly on the throne. "Mother?"

Cersei Lannister considered Sansa thoughtfully. "If Lord Eddard were to confess his crime," she said at last, "we would know he had repented his folly."

Joffrey pushed himself to his feet. Please, Sansa thought, please, please, be the king I know you are, good and kind and noble, please. "Do you have any more to say?" he asked her.

"Only . . . that as you love me, you do me this kindness, my prince," Sansa said.

King Joffrey looked her up and down. "Your sweet words have moved me," he said gallantly, nodding, as if to say all would be well. "I shall do as you ask . . . but first your father has to confess. He has to confess and say that I'm the king and my brother is a traitor to the crown, or there will be no mercy for him."

"He will," Sansa said, heart soaring. "Oh, I know he will."


	16. AGOT The Imp

"They have my son," Tywin Lannister said.

"They do, my lord." The messenger's voice was dulled by exhaustion. On the breast of his torn surcoat, the brindled boar of Crakehall was half-obscured by dried blood.

 _One of your sons,_ Tyrion thought. He took a sip of wine and said not a word, thinking of Jaime. When he lifted his arm, pain shot through his elbow, reminding him of his own brief taste of battle. He loved his brother, but he would not have wanted to be with him in the Whispering Wood for all the gold in Casterly Rock.

His father's assembled captains and bannermen had fallen very quiet as the courier told his tale. The only sound was the crackle and hiss of the log burning in the hearth at the end of the long, drafty common room.

After the hardships of the long relentless drive south, the prospect of even a single night in an inn had cheered Tyrion mightily . . . though he rather wished it had not been this inn again, with all its memories. His father had set a grueling pace, and it had taken its toll. Men wounded in the battle kept up as best they could or were abandoned to fend for themselves. Every morning they left a few more by the roadside, men who went to sleep never to wake. Every afternoon a few more collapsed along the way. And every evening a few more deserted, stealing off into the dusk. Tyrion had been half-tempted to go with them.

He had been upstairs, enjoying the comfort of a featherbed and the warmth of Shae's body beside him, when his squire had woken him to say that a rider had arrived with dire news of Riverrun. So it had all been for nothing. The rush south, the endless forced marches, the bodies left beside the road . . . all for naught. had reached Riverrun days and days ago.

"How could this happen?" Ser Harys Swyft moaned. "How? Even after the Whispering Wood, you had Riverrun ringed in iron, surrounded by a great host . . . what madness made Ser Jaime decide to split his men into three separate camps? Surely he knew how vulnerable that would leave them?"

 _Better than you, you chinless craven_ , Tyrion thought. Jaime might have lost Riverrun, but it angered him to hear his brother slandered by the likes of Swyft, a shameless lickspittle whose greatest accomplishment was marrying his equally chinless daughter to Ser Kevan, and thereby attaching himself to the Lannisters.

"I would have done the same," his uncle responded, a more calmly than Tyrion might have. "You have never seen Riverrun, Ser Harys, or you would know that Jaime had little choice in the matter. The castle is situated at the end of the point of land where the Tumblestone flows into the Red Fork of the Trident. The rivers form two sides of a triangle, and when danger threatens, the Tullys open their sluice gates upstream to create a wide moat on the third side, turning Riverrun into an island. The walls rise sheer from the water, and from their towers the defenders have a commanding view of the opposite shores for many leagues around. To cut off all the approaches, a besieger must needs place one camp north of the Tumblestone, one south of the Red Fork, and a third between the rivers, west of the moat. There is no other way, none."

"Ser Kevan speaks truly, my lords," the courier said. "We'd built palisades of sharpened stakes around the camps, yet it was not enough, not with no warning and the rivers cutting us off from each other. They came down on the north camp first. No one was expecting an attack. Marq Piper had been raiding our supply trains, but he had no more than fifty men. Ser Jaime had gone out to deal with them the night before . . . well, with what we thought was them. We were told the host was east of the Green Fork, marching south . . . "

"And your outriders?" Ser Gregor Clegane's face might have been hewn from rock. The fire in the hearth gave a somber orange cast to his skin and put deep shadows in the hollows of his eyes. "They saw nothing? They gave you no warning?"

The bloodstained messenger shook his head. "Our outriders had been vanishing. Marq Piper's work, we thought. The ones who come back had seen nothing."

"A man who sees nothing has no use for his eyes," the Mountain declared. "Cut them out and give them to your next outrider. Tell him you hope that four eyes might see better than two . . . and if not, the man after him will have six."

Tywin turned his face to study Ser Gregor. Tyrion saw a glimmer of gold as the light shone off his father's pupils, but he could not have said whether the look was one of approval or disgust. Lord Tywin was oft quiet in council, preferring to listen before he spoke, a habit Tyrion himself tried to emulate. Yet this silence was uncharacteristic even for him, and his wine was untouched.

"You said they came at night," Ser Kevan prompted.

The man gave a weary nod. "The Blackfish led the van, cutting down our sentries and clearing away the palisades for the main assault. By the time our men knew what was happening, riders were pouring over the ditch banks and galloping through the camp with swords and torches in hand. I was sleeping in the west camp, between the rivers. When we heard the fighting and saw the tents being fired, Lord Brax led us to the rafts and we tried to pole across, but the current pushed us downstream and the Tullys started flinging rocks at us with the catapults on their walls. I saw one raft smashed to kindling and three others overturned, men swept into the river and drowned . . . and those who did make it across found the Starks waiting for them on the riverbanks."

Ser Flement Brax wore a silver-and-purple and the look of a man who cannot comprehend what he has just heard. "My lord father—"

"Sorry, my lord," the blood-soaked messenger said. "Lord Brax was clad in plate-and-mail when his raft overturned. He was very gallant."

 _He was a fool,_ Tyrion thought, his cup and staring down into the winy depths. Crossing a river at night on a crude raft, wearing armor, with an enemy waiting on the other side—if that was gallantry, he would take cowardice every time. He wondered if Lord Brax had felt especially gallant as the weight of his steel pulled him under the black water.

"The camp between the rivers was overrun as well," the messenger was saying. "While we were trying to cross, more Starks swept in from the west, two columns of armored horse. I saw Lord Umber's giant-in-chains and the Mallister eagle, but it was the boy who led them, with a monstrous wolf running at his side. I wasn't there to see, but it's said the beast killed four men and ripped apart a dozen horses. Our spearmen formed up a shieldwall and held against their first charge, but when the Tullys saw them engaged, they opened the gates of Riverrun and Tytos Blackwood led a sortie across the drawbridge and took them in the rear."

"Gods save us," Lord Lefford swore.

"Greatjon Umber fired the siege towers we were building, and Lord Blackwood found Ser Edmure Tully in chains among the other captives, and made off with them all. Our south camp was under the command of Ser Forley Prester. He retreated in good order when he saw that the other camps were lost, with two thousand spears and as many bowmen, but the Tyroshi sellsword who led his freeriders struck his banners and went over to the foe."

"Curse the man." His uncle Kevan sounded more than surprised. "I warned Jaime not to trust that one. A man who fights for coin is loyal only to his purse."

Lord Tywin wove his fingers together under his chin. Only his eyes moved as he listened. His bristling golden side-whiskers framed a face so still it might have been a mask, but Tyrion could see tiny beads of sweat dappling his father's shaven head.

"How could it happen?" Ser Harys Swyft wailed again. "Ser Jaime taken, the siege broken . . . this is a catastrophe!"

Ser Addam Marbrand said, "I am sure we are all grateful to you for pointing out the obvious, Ser Harys. The question is, what shall we do about it?"

"What can we do? Jaime's host is all slaughtered or taken or put to flight, and the Starks and the Tullys sit squarely across our line of supply. We are cut off from the west! They can march on Casterly Rock if they so choose, and what's to stop them? My lords, we are beaten. We must sue for peace."

"Peace?" Tyrion swirled his wine thoughtfully, took a deep draft, and hurled his empty cup to the floor, where it shattered into a thousand pieces. "There's your peace, Ser Harys. My sweet nephew broke it for good and all when he decided to ornament the Red Keep with Lord Eddard's head. You'll have an easier time drinking wine from that cup than you will convincing Robb Stark to make peace now. He's winning . . . or hadn't you noticed?"

"Two battles do not make a war," Ser Addam insisted. "We are far from lost. I should welcome the chance to try my own steel against this Stark boy."

"Perhaps they would consent to a truce, and allow us to trade our prisoners for theirs," offered Lord Lefford.

"Unless they trade three-for-one, we still come out light on those scales," Tyrion said acidly. "And what are we to offer for my brother? Lord Eddard's rotting head?"

"I had heard that Queen Cersei has the Hand's daughters," Lefford said hopefully. "If we give the lad his sisters back . . . "

Ser Addam snorted disdainfully. "He would have to be an utter ass to trade Jaime Lannister's for two girls."

"Then we must ransom Ser Jaime, whatever it costs," Lord Lefford said.

Tyrion rolled his eyes. "If the Starks feel the need for gold, they can melt down Jaime's armour."

"If we ask for a truce, they will think us weak," Ser Addam argued. "We should march on them at once."

"Surely our friends at court could be prevailed upon to join us with fresh troops," said Ser Harys. "And someone might return to Casterly Rock to raise a new host."

Lord Tywin Lannister rose to his feet. "They have my son," he said once more, in a voice that cut through the babble like a sword through suet. "Leave me. All of you."

Ever the soul of obedience, Tyrion rose to depart with the rest, but his father gave him a look. "Not you, Tyrion. Remain. And you as well, Kevan. The rest of you, out."

Tyrion eased himself back onto the bench, startled into speechlessness. Ser Kevan crossed the room to the wine casks. "Uncle," Tyrion called, "if you would be so kind—"

"Here." His father offered him his cup, the wine untouched.

Now Tyrion truly was nonplussed. He drank.

Lord Tywin seated himself. "You have the right of it about Stark. Alive, we might have used Lord Eddard to forge a peace with Winterfell and Riverrun, a peace that would have given us the time we need to deal with Renly. Damon banished and Stark . . . " His hand curled into a fist. "Madness. Rank madness."

"Joff's only a boy," Tyrion pointed out. "At his age, I committed a few follies of my own."

His father gave him a sharp look. "You did not name your brother a traitor and order his death sentence but I suppose you're right, I suppose we ought to be grateful that he has not yet married a whore."

Tyrion sipped at his wine, wondering how Lord Tywin would look if he flung the cup in his face.

"Our position is worse than you know," his father went on. "It would seem we have a new king."

Ser Kevan looked poleaxed. "A new—who? What have they done to Joffrey? Is it Damon?"

The faintest flicker of distaste played across Lord Tywin's thin lips. "Nothing . . . yet. My grandson still sits the Iron Throne, but the eunuch has heard whispers from the south. Renly wed Margaery Tyrell at Highgarden this fortnight past, and now he has claimed the crown. The bride's father and brothers have bent the knee and sworn him their swords. And Damon . . . there has been no word of Damon since he had fled the Red Keep and declared a traitor."

"Those are grave tidings." When Ser Kevan frowned, the furrows in his brow grew deep as canyons.

"My daughter commands us to ride for King's Landing at once, to defend the Red Keep against King Renly and the Knight of Flowers." His mouth tightened. "Commands us, mind you. In the name of the king and council."

"How is King Joffrey taking the news?" Tyrion asked with a certain black amusement.

"Cersei has not seen fit to tell him yet," Lord Tywin said. "She fears he might insist on marching against Renly himself."

"With what army?" Tyrion asked. "You don't plan to give him this one, I hope?"

"He talks of leading the City Watch," Lord Tywin said.

"If he takes the Watch, he'll leave the city undefended," Ser Kevan said. "And with Lord Stannis on Dragonstone . . . and Damon gods know where . . ."

"Yes." Lord Tywin looked down at his son. "I had thought you were the one made for motley, Tyrion, but it would appear that I was wrong."

"Why, Father," said Tyrion, "that almost like praise." He leaned forward intently. "What of Stannis? He's the elder, not Renly. How does he feel about his brother's claim?"

His father frowned. "I have felt from the beginning that Stannis was a greater danger than all the others combined. Yet he does nothing, not even Varys knows what he is doing. Damon has simply vanished, he was in the Red Keep one minute and then the other he was a puff of smoke. He could be on his way to Dragonstone even now to try and gain his uncle's support or worse, he could be on his way across the Narrow Sea, our chance of taking him back peacefully growing smaller. I don't believe that Damon would try to usurp Joffrey's throne and I don't believe the honourable Lord Stark would join his plot." Lord Tywin sighed and for the first time in Tyrion's life, the man had shown his face instead of the lion. "Kevan, bring us the map."

Ser Kevan did as he was bid. Lord Tywin unrolled the leather, smoothing it flat. "Jaime has left us in a bad way. Roose Bolton and the remnants of his host are north of us. Our enemies hold the Twins and Moat Cailin. Robb Stark sits to the west, so we cannot retreat to Lannisport and the Rock unless we choose to give battle. Jaime is taken, and his army for all purposes has ceased to exist. Thoros of Myr and Beric Dondarrion continue to plague our foraging parties. To our east we have the Arryns, Stannis Baratheon sits on Dragonstone, and in the south Highgarden and Storm's End are calling their banners."

Tyrion smiled crookedly. "Take heart, Father. At least Rhaegar is still dead."

"I had hoped you might have more to offer us than japes, Tyrion," Lord Tywin Lannister said.

Ser Kevan frowned over the map, forehead creasing. "Robb Stark will have Edmure Tully and the lords of the Trident with him now. Their combined power may exceed our own. And with Roose Bolton behind us . . . Tywin, if we remain here, I fear we might be caught between three armies."

"I have no intention of remaining here. We must finish our business with young Lord Stark before Renly Baratheon can march from Highgarden. Bolton does not concern me. He is a wary man, and we made him warier on the Green Fork. He will be slow to give pursuit. So . . . on the morrow, we make for Harrenhal. Kevan, I want Ser Addam's outriders to screen our movements. Give him as many men as he requires, and send them out in groups of four. I will have no vanishings."

"As you say, my lord, but . . . why Harrenhal? That is a grim, unlucky place. Some call it cursed."

"Let them," Lord Tywin said. "Unleash Ser Gregor and send him before us with his reavers. Send forth Vargo Hoat and his freeriders as well, and Ser Amory Lorch. Each is to have three hundred horse. Tell them I want to see the riverlands afire from the Gods Eye to the Red Fork."

"They will burn, my lord," Ser Kevan said, rising. "I shall give the commands." He bowed and made for the door.

When they were alone, Lord Tywin glanced at Tyrion. "Your savages might relish a bit of rapine. Tell them they may ride with Vargo Hoat and plunder as they like—goods, stock, women, they may take what they want and burn the rest."

"Telling Shagga and Timett how to pillage is like telling a rooster how to crow," Tyrion commented, "but I should prefer to keep them with me." Uncouth and unruly they might be, yet the wildlings were his, and he trusted them more than any of his father's men. He was not about to hand them over.

"Then you had best learn to control them. I will not have the city plundered."

"The city?" Tyrion was lost. "What city would that be?"

"King's Landing. I am sending you to court."

It was the last thing Tyrion Lannister would ever have anticipated.

He reached for his wine, and considered for a moment as he sipped. "And what am I to do there?"

"Rule," his father said curtly

Tyrion hooted with laughter. "My sweet sister might have a word or two to say about that!"

"Let her say what she likes. Her son needs to be taken in hand before he ruins us all. I blame those jackanapes on the council—our friend Petyr, the venerable Grand Maester, and that cockless wonder Lord Varys. What sort of counsel are they giving Joffrey when he lurches from one folly to the next? Whose notion was it to make this Janos Slynt a lord? The man's father was a butcher, and they grant him Harrenhal. Harrenhal, that was the seat of kings! Not that he will ever set foot inside it, if I have a say. I am told he took a bloody spear for his sigil. A bloody cleaver would have been my choice." His father had not raised his voice, yet Tyrion could see the anger in the gold of his eyes. "And dismissing Selmy, where was the sense in that? Yes, the man was old, but the name of Barristan the Bold still has meaning in the realm. He lent honor to any man he served. Can anyone say the same of the Hound? You feed your dog bones under the table, you do not seat him beside you on the high bench. And Damon . . . what did the councillors say on that matter. He was my heir, I spent the last decade forging him into a man that could be Lord of Casterly Rock but that was all taken from me." He pointed a finger at Tyrion's face. "If Cersei cannot curb the boy, you must. And if these councillors are playing us false . . . "

Tyrion knew. "Spikes," he sighed. "Heads. Walls."

"I see you have taken a few lessons from me."

"More than you know, Father," Tyrion answered quietly. He finished his set the cup aside, thoughtful. A part of him was more pleased than he cared to admit. Another part was remembering the battle upriver, and wondering if he was being sent to hold the left again. "Why me?" he asked, cocking his head to one side. "Why not my uncle? Why not Ser Addam or Ser Flement or Lord Serrett? Why not a . . . bigger man?"

Lord Tywin rose abruptly. "You are my son."

That was when he knew. _You have given him up for lost,_ he thought. _You bloody bastard, you think Jaime's good as dead as well as Damon, so I'm all you have left._ Tyrion wanted to slap him, to spit in his face, to draw his dagger and cut the heart out of him and see if it was made of old hard gold, the way the smallfolks said. Yet he sat there, silent and still.

"And Tyrion, if you discover anyone who plotted Damon's downfall, spikes are too good for them, feed them to the hounds."

The shards of the broken cup crunched beneath his father's heels as Lord Tywin crossed the room. "One last thing," he said at the door. "You will not take the whore to court."

Tyrion sat alone in the common room for a long while after his father was gone. Finally he climbed the steps to his cozy garret beneath the bell tower. The ceiling was low, but that was scarcely a drawback for a dwarf. From the window, he could see the gibbet his father had erected in the yard. The innkeep's body turned slowly on its rope whenever the night wind gusted. Her flesh had grown as thin and ragged as Lannister hopes.

Shae murmured sleepily and rolled toward him when he sat on the edge of the featherbed. He slid his hand under the blanket and cupped a soft breast, and her eyes opened. "M'lord," she said with a drowsy smile.

When he felt her nipple stiffen, Tyrion kissed her. "I have a mind to take you to King's Landing, sweetling," he whispered.


	17. AGOT Damon VII

_Author's Note:This is the last chapter of this book, I'm nearly finished all the ACOK chapters and then I need to go over and edit it._

 _charliekiller124:Yeah, I know it's word for word but it was sort of a last minute add on and I promise in the future there won't be chapters that are just copies of the book. I just wanted to add in the Stark's perspective before ending it all. We got the court of King's Landing's view, the Lannister's and the Stark's. I contemplated adding in Renly and Stannis' but their views will be shown in the next book._

 _Ataxius:Catelyn hates Damon because she blames him for leading Ned to his death. Robb believes the same thing and the Northern lords believe Ned was manipulated by a Lannister into betraying his honour so they all hate Damon because he led their Lord Paramount to his doom._

* * *

Water droplets spilled off the blade's edge as he placed it beside the wooden bowl. Damon dried his head with his shirt, the smooth feeling was unusual as the water's ripples became less severe. When the water finally calmed, Damon looked into the reflective surface and let out a deep sigh, the water rippled some more at that. It stilled and the image was quite clear even though the water was constantly shaking. His once long and luscious black mane was gone, in its place was bare skin that felt abnormally cold with his hair gone. The floor around him was littered with long and short locks of hair. The water also showed that his stubble had grown into what could pass for a trimmed beard. The most important thing was that he looked little like he had when he was a Prince of the Realm. His dirt-smeared face made him look like a commoner but it also made his purple-blue eyes stand out even more than before. Damon punched the water in frustration like it would expel the past few weeks of his life but when the water stilled he remained shirtless in the little room that he had taken residence in.

The young man turned away from the bowl and threw his shirt over his head. He put on the sleeveless boiled leather tunic he had bought and the woollen trousers, wrapping his swordbelt around his waist. When he picked up the longsword, it's craftsmanship was woeful to the sword that Tobho Mott had made for him. It was a fine piece of work but Tobho's sword had been a masterpiece, but the sword had been sold for some gold dragons, not even a fraction of the price Damon had paid for it. With the sword had gone the horses as well and they were grossly underpaid for but Damon had little choice. _A simple hired sword should not be riding a destrier that a king would ride._ Damon did not want to part with Ebony but he could not risk his identity for his stallion, no matter how much he cared for him.

As Damon sheathed his sword and threw his cloak around his shoulders, a golden pin fell onto the wooden floor. He knelt down and picked it up. _The last thing that remains of my former life._ Damon had had dozens of little trinkets in the Red Keep but now that they were all gone, this pin had become the most important thing in his possession. He would go to sleep with it in his grasp and wake up with a fresh cut on his palm. He had never properly looked at the pin before and noticed the intricacies of it. The eyes were made of onyx and in between the antlers of the stag's head was the form of two does standing combatant amidst a forest, leaves and grass littering the ground. How someone could fit so much detail into so small a piece baffled Damon and it made it even more precious knowing how much effort had been put into it. The clothes that he had worn with the pin were gone, stuffed into a drain in King's Landing waiting for the sewage to take it into the sewers and out to the sea.

Damon stood up and placed the golden pin into a pocket in his tunic. The former prince took one last look at his visage in the bowl of water and left the room. He walked down the corridor of the inn and walked into the common room where the hearth was raging in the centre of the room. It reminded Damon of the hearths in his father's room when he had passed, he could still feel the heat emanating from the flames, providing a stuffy feeling that encompassed the entirety of the king's chamber. He walked past the fire and walked over to a wooden table. He sat down beside Lucion who was dressed quite similarly to Damon except he wore a studded gambeson and had a waraxe strapped to his back. His hair had grown and was unkempt, he had grown a small beard but it came in patchy. But with the changes to his appearance, the scraggly man beside him looked little like the handsome knight that his friend had been.

Lucion looked to Damon and then back to his bowl of soup. "You should know that news has come from the Riverlands," Lucion said as he drank from the bowl of soup. "The Kingslayer has been taken captive by the Young Wolf and he defeated your unc- the Lannister army besieging Riverrun." Damon closed his eyes and made a silent prayer to the gods. The last piece of news that had come from the Riverlands was that his grandfather had defeated Roose Bolton and he had fallen back to the crossroads inn.

Damon stopped a serving maid and asked for what Lucion had before giving his reply. "The Kingslayer was never meant to lead armies, he has only ever been a warrior, never a commander." When Damon's soup came, silence descended between the two of them but that meant he could hear all the conversations happening around him.

A tall man was speaking to the innkeeper and he still seemed drunk from the night before. "The Lannisters'll destroy the Young Wolf before he gets within a thousand miles of King's Landing," said the man, his speech slurred.

The innkeeper replaced the tall man's mug with another. "He's already within a thousand miles, ya drunk! And from what I hear, the Young Wolf commands an army of skinchangers that turn into wolves and rip out men's guts before they even know they are being attacked."

A man with a staff by the hearth shouted, "Codswallop! I'm King Robert if the Young Wolf controls an army of skinchangers."

The innkeeper adjusted his sights to the man with the stick. "Even so, Clubfoot, there's no doubting that the Young Wolf has a direwolf with him. Sure, his sisters had 'em when they went to King's Landing. I heard that one tried to bite King Joffrey's arm off at the Ruby Ford."

The drunk spoke again, "No, it was his brother that nearly took his arm off. He tried to trample on it with his horse!"

"Damon Baratheon!" Clubfoot spat on the ground. "The traitor! Tried to usurp his brother's throne! He'll get what's comin' to him when King Joffrey's men find 'im!" A month prior, Damon would have stood up and pushed the cripple to the ground for besmirching his name but he had gone numb to everything ever since he had been named a traitor. He chuckled, he always wanted to be like Lord Tywin and ignore the slights done to him and it was only possible after he had been named a traitor and all his influence had disappeared.

That conversation eventually fell into talk about the next harvest so Damon began to listen to the two men sitting at the table next to him, both of whom were speaking in hushed tones. "Did you hear?" the younger one asked.

"Did I hear what?" the second man had a raspy voice.

"About the King's Hand!" the young man spoke eagerly. "He was beheaded on the step's of Baelor's Sept! Beheaded for trying to help Prince Damon steal King Joffrey's throne!"

"Not right that," said the raspy man. "It's not right to kill a man at a place so holy."

"Who cares if it's right or not," commented the young man, annoyed. "He was a traitor and he deserved it! Soon enough Damon Baratheon's head will follow the Hand's!"

"Shut your mouth!" the raspy man shot back, the young one seemingly shrinking. "Don't speak about things you don't know about! The king won't kill his own brother. He who slays his kin is cursed in the eyes of the gods! No one, not even a king, should challenge the gods! More than likely, the traitor prince will go to the Wall."

"Whatever you say, old man." The young man turned back to his soup.

Damon took his time finishing his soup but when he did, Lucion dragged him outside for a walk. The skies had reflected Damon's melancholy mood, full of clouds they were and dark and grey. The rain was pouring heavily and you would be forgiven to mistake that it was actually night. The dirt roads of Duskendale were sludge and nearly impossible for horses to navigate without risking losing a shoe or breaking a leg. Deep foot prints were full to the brim of brown murky water.

As Damon walked past a wagon whose wheel had gotten caught in the sludge, Lucion leaned in to speak. "We need to move on from Duskendale soon enough," said Damon's sworn shield. "Some Lannister soldiers rode through town yesterday asking questions. It seems somebody saw a certain black-haired prince changing into peasant's clothes in Fleabottom and then moving towards the Iron Gate."

Damon found it hard to find motivation to deal with the problem. "They'll move on soon enough, Lucion," he assured Lucion. "Once they taste a few whores they'll head back to King's Landing."

"But even so, Damon! We must think of moving on and soon, the horses got us a good bit of money but eventually it will run out," Lucion spoke in hushed tones, worry painted across his face. How could Damon tell his friend that he didn't care?

"We will deal with that problem when it comes, Lucion. Until then we should just focus on keeping our heads low. Come on, we should get back to the inn before we catch a chill." Damon began to turn but Lucion grabbed him and pushed him into up against a wall in an alleyway.

"Fuck your chill!" he stated in a low menacing tone. "We can't stay here forever, Damon! We need to find a way to strike back at Joffrey." He loosened his grip on Damon's tunic. "We can go to Stannis or Renly, I'm sure we could win them to our side. We could maybe go to Robb Stark and beg our case there. And of course we can always go to Lord Tywi-"

Damon had enough, he batted Lucion's arms away and pushed him up against the opposite side of the alleyway. "Don't you understand, Lucion! I don't care! I don't care about striking back!" Spittle flew into Lucion's scraggly beard. "I'm not going to go to Lord Tywin, the cunt of the Rock! Everything he touches becomes corrupt! I'm not going to Renly or Stannis! I don't care anymore! Joffrey . . . Joffrey has won. The sooner you accept that, the sooner the both of us can get on with our lives." Damon let go of his grip on Lucion's gambeson. It felt good to get that off of his shoulders, it had been something he had wanted to say ever since he had arrived at Duskendale and now that it was, it felt good for the truth to be out in the open.

"What? Why?" asked Lucion with a furrowed brow.

"Do you really have to ask that? Really?" Damon was in disbelief. "My father has just died because of a fucking boar! The man who raised me, mine own grandfather, killed my unborn child and sent the woman that I loved to a fucking sept! My own brother wants me dead! I know he's a cunt but he's still my brother, and he wants me dead! My life is shit and I don't give a crap about what happens to me next. If the Lannisters find me then they can kill me if they like because I just don't care anymore!"

Lucion looked downward but looked back at Damon with renewed vigour. He pushed Damon to the opposite wall. "Well what about me? I became a traitor for you! I may never be able to see my father, my mother or my sister ever again! And I did it for you!" Lucion's word hit hard and Damon looked at his feet ashamed. Lucion scoffed and walked away but he looked back after a few steps. "There's a ship that leaves for Pentos in the morning, I've decided to board it and travel to Essos. I might make a half-decent life as a sellsword there. I'll leave the pouch of gold dragons in your room, you can drown your sorrows at the bottom of a barrel just like your father!" Damon looked at his feet ashamed but Lucion grabbed his head and forced him to look at him. "Or you can come with me and we can build a new life, just you and me!" His friend placed a kiss on his forehead and turned away. Lucion began to walk back the way he came and this time he didn't look back.

Damon leaned against the wall and slid down onto a piece of broken wood. The rain was still heavily pouring but Damon would not have known the difference if the sun was shining. Such things like the weather did not bother him after everything he had been through. Something inside of Damon urged him to lie down on his side, curl up into a little ball and wait for his end but instead Damon stood up and walked out onto the street.

He pulled his hood up around his face and walked the opposite way of Lucion. _It's better if he leaves me,_ Damon decided. _I will most likely be dead before the moons turn and he shouldn't join me._ Unbidden, Damon's thoughts wandered to Jeyne, to pretty Jeyne, his first and most likely last love. He had seen prettier girls, he had seen more confident girls but something about her had just drawn him to her. The first time they had met was when Damon had been riding along the coast of the Westerlands and he was set upon by bandits. Raynald Westerling had saved his life and brought him back to the Crag. While Lord Westerling had sent a raven to Lord Tywin, Jeyne had treated the arrow wound that Damon had suffered. She had stayed with Damon for his entire first night and they talked well into the morning.

Ser Kevan came and collected Damon and that was that, he doubted that he would see Jeyne much because even though they were a lordly house, they were little better than landed knights and rarely came to court. But when his nameday tourney came around she was there and Damon had found himself enthralled with her again, rarely lifting his eyes off of her throughout the feast. They had danced together throughout the night, while many people had begun to leave they had continued dancing with each other. Damon would have given both of his hands to have stopped time at that moment because after that, it had only gotten worse. One thing led to another and before Damon knew it, he watched Jeyne being dragged by one of his many cousins to a forgotten sept while another told him that his son was dead, before he had even opened his eyes.

Damon could no longer think about that and he tried to search for something that might cheer him up but whatever he thought of only increased his misery. His brother wanted him dead, his grandfather killed his unborn son, his father was dead, his mother wouldn't stand in the way of her beloved Joffrey, his uncles were just as likely to kill him as help him, he was a traitor to everyone in the realm and the one person left that could have helped him was driven away because of Damon's wallowing. Lucion had tried to get Damon out of his pit of self-pity but Damon had ignored his one true friend at every turn, even with his devout loyalty to Damon, Lucion wouldn't try to protect a man with no desire to live, not after trying at every turn to find a way to find that desire.

As Damon walked through the sludge of the streets he came upon a man who was working on his roofed porch. He was working on a fishing net, his fingers intricately weaving each piece of straw with the next. Damon stopped walking and just looked at the man as he did his job. It amazed Damon that his life had completely fallen apart but this man's life continued much the same as it had been before. Damon had always assumed that if something happened to him that it would change each of the smallfolk's lives but now he saw how wrong he was.

Damon leaned against the railing on the porch and his weight made the wood creak. The man's head shot up and gave a blank stare to where Damon was. It was then that he realised the old thatcher was blind, both of his eyes were a foggy white, nothing was left to suggest what the colour of his eyes had been. "What? Is someone there?" the man spoke raspily.

Damon took his arms off of the railing and took a few steps back, he didn't say anything. What could he say? "Well, if you're looking for the net, it'll be ready by tomorrow. You can come back then." The man went back to work.

"No, I didn't come for the net, I'm just a bit lost," Damon told him, he didn't know why he said that but the man had a strange aura around him.

"Well, young man, why don't you come in out of the rain and we can put you on the proper path again, I've got some stew on the fire that we can share." The thatcher got up and began to turn inside his house, Damon made no move to join him. The man turned back and looked at him with a toothless smile. "Well, aren't you coming in, lad?" Against Damon's better judgment, he followed the thatcher inside.

The house had only one room with a curtain hoisted up in the right corner of the house, for some privacy when you went to the piss bucket, Damon guessed. The bed had a wooden frame and was covered in rough furs and pieces of straw, beside that was a desk with bundles of straw side by side. The floor was littered with pieces of straw and dirt, there was a hole in the roof of the house and a puddle had formed on the ground. Damon took a bucket by the wall and placed it where the water was leaking in. The fire was in the middle of the left wall, the smoke left the house through a stone chimney and a pot of stew was placed above the fire. The blind man gestured for Damon to sit at the table in the middle of the room while he went and fetched some bowls. Even though the man was blind, Damon could have sworn he was anything but, he moved around the room like he could see everything.

As the man poured the stew from the pot into Damon's bowl, the thatcher asked, "Why is a highborn lad like yourself walking around Duskendale and watching an old thatcher doing his work?" Damon gaped in shock at the old man's assessment.

"How . . . how did you know?" Damon questioned, leaning in.

"You need to improve on your accent, lad," the thatcher told him. "One in a hundred will question it but the one that does can cause you an awful lot of trouble."

"And are you going to question it?" Damon asked, his hand inching closer to the knife on the table.

"Why would I? I'm an old man and I'm not looking for trouble, that's what questioning your accent would lead to." The thatcher ate some of his stew. "The name's Jon if you were wonderin', Jon Thatcher."

"Mine is Da-Daryn." Damon was sure that if the thatcher knew who he really was then he would tell the guards and he didn't want to have to kill the old man.

"Daryn?" Damon could tell the man was skeptical. "Fine, Daryn, you said you were lost, I'm going to assume that you aren't literally lost."

Damon narrowed his eyes, "You are strangely astute for a thatcher, Jon."

The thatcher chuckled, "When you're blind as long as I've been you are able to catch the tells in people's voices. It's the main reason I knew that you were a highborn." The thatcher looked up from his stew. "So, what happened that tossed you off of your path?"

Damon hesitated to tell the man but he needed to tell someone that didn't know who he was and didn't think he was a traitor. "My father died recently and I was driven from my home by my brother. Now I don't know what to do, I've no one to turn to, men have died to keep me safe and it is all for nothing. I . . . am nothing!"

Jon nodded in understanding, "Why do you think you are nothing?"

"Because my entire life has fallen apart and nothing has changed, I may as well be dead. Life would go on without any change," Damon put his face in his hands.

"Is that so? Do you have any other siblings?" Jon asked, going back to his stew.

"Yes," Damon didn't mention which number in case that that made it too obvious who he was.

"Are they like your brother?" The thatcher was extremely focused on his stew.

"No," Damon said, simply.

"Do they love and care about you, like any good sibling should?" Jon never looked up from his soup.

"Yes, but that doesn't matter." The words rang hollow even to Damon, it was a weak argument.

"But it does, because you have touched their lives and your death would mean so much to them, their entire life would be altered if you died. You owe it to them to soldier on! You owe it to your father's memory! You owe it to yourself!" Damon looked down at his stew and when he looked back up, Jon was staring at him. His eyes had a clairvoyance in them that Damon had never seen before. "Each and every life means something! Each life affects the world, big or small. You are a Prince of the Realm, a Baratheon, son of King Robert and you should be stronger than this."

Damon didn't know how to react to Jon knowing who he was other than relieved. He was one of the two people in all of Westeros that hadn't named him a traitor. "In my life I have learned to not trust the news that has come from King's Landing. Now, I don't know what exactly happened between you and your brother but know that your story will not end here. In a thatcher's house with a leaking roof. Not unless you decide it does but I believe that you could go on to do great things, my prince. You just need to _want_ to do those things!"

Damon talked with the thatcher for the entire day until night had truly descended. He had learned that Jon had fathered a son when he was younger and that he had fought for Damon's father during the rebellion even though Duskendale had fought with the dragons. He had become a knight for his valour on the Trident slaying four men and capturing a highborn knight. Damon could see the pure joy on the old man's face when speaking of his son but sadly, Jon's son had died on Pyke, taking a quarrel to the neck.

The bald boy helped the old thatcher to sleep on his bed while Damon had decided to sleep on the floor of the house. He gathered up loose bits of straw to make a temporary mattress and he got a bundle of straw as a pillow. Damon used his cloak as a blanket and when the fire had just become a few dying embers, Damon took out the golden stag's head pin. He swore on the pin that he would do right by his father, by Tommen and by Myrcella, he would become a man they would be proud to call brother.

Damon was woken up by Jon early the next morning. "Rise and shine, my prince." The raspy voice had been a voice of great comfort.

"What hour is it?" Damon asked, rubbing his eyes.

"It's the hour that your friend leaves for Pentos, so now would be the time to stop him if you want to." Damon shot up from the floor, not minding at how stiff his back felt. He said his thanks to Jon at swore that he would repay the debt one day. _A Lannister always pays his debts,_ a voice said in the back of his mind. _I'm not a Lannister, I'm a Baratheon. Ours is the fury._

Damon raced along the docks searching for his friend, he asked captain what ships were going to Pentos and the last ship that Damon checked was where he found Lucion. "Lucion!" he shouted at his sworn shield as he was climbing onto the ship.

Lucion spun around, his eyes widened in shock, "What are you doing here?" Lucion asked as Damon stopped in front of the ship.

Damon was panting but he was able to say, "I'm sorry with how I treated you, you have stood by me through more than you should ever have to bear. I now beg your forgiveness." Damon fell on his knees in front of him.

Lucion lifted him up from his knees and brought him to his full height. "There is nothing to forgive, my friend," Lucion smiled and Damon copied him, dragging his sworn shield into a hug. When they let each other go, Lucion asked, "Where to now?"

"We will go to Pentos."

"Pentos?" Lucion questioned with a furrowed brow. "Why there?"

"Because as of this moment, it is safer in Pentos than it is in any of the Seven Kingdoms here in Westeros," Damon explained to his only ally. "Here we have too many enemies and no allies to speak of but in Essos, we can buy the allies we need."

Lucion furrowed his brow once more, "What do you mean?" It then dawned on him. "Mercenaries?"

Damon nodded, "Joffrey destroyed my life, I will one day destroy his. I will not become a page in somebody else's history book, the world will know my name."

* * *

 _"When Prince Damon marched onto that boat, any hope of reconciliation between brothers was gone. King Joffrey ascended to the throne that by all rights should have been his brother's but the truth of the Illborn King would not be revealed until much later. With Prince Damon removed from the war, his youngest uncle would stake his claim against his supposed nephew. Robb Stark was declared the first King in the North ever since Torrhen Stark knelt to the Targaryen's dragons. The death of Robert Baratheon spurred on his former enemies to once more declare their bid for independence, and so the Greyjoys became the Iron Kings once more. The events that followed shook all of Westeros to it's very core with Damon Baratheon always appearing close to it's centre. So began the long and arduous journey of the only trueborn son of the Demon of the Trident."_ — Excerpt from The Chronicles and Legacy of Damon Baratheon, Volume I, Prince and Traitor,


	18. ACOK Damon I

_After years of peace in Westeros, through treason and murder the War of the Four Kings has begun._

 _Joffrey Baratheon, King Robert's heir, sits atop the Iron Throne in King's Landing. Following the beheading of Lord Eddard Stark, the North has travelled south of the Neck, thirsting for justice while naming Robb Stark the King in the North. Renly Baratheon, the king's uncle, has proclaimed himself the King of the Seven Kingdoms and now marches onto King's Landing with the might of Storm's End and Highgarden at his back. With the death of King Robert, an old, opportunistic foe has reared his head once more._

 _The Lannister loyalists reluctantly fight for King Joffrey after his naming of the Westerlands' unofficial heir, Damon Baratheon, the king's own brother, a traitor. His whereabouts are unknown to most but the young Baratheon prince has fled to Pentos where he now struggles to survive but constantly plans for his return to Westeros and the vengeance he shall have. On the other side of Essos, the Mother of Dragons makes her way across the Red Waste._

* * *

"Where is the cache?"

The fat man yelped at Damon's raised voice. The man stood there shaking in his boots, his bottom lip was trembling and his second and third chin quaked. "I-I d-don't kn-kn-know what yo-you're talking about." Damon was getting tired of this, he grabbed the man's collar and put him up against the alley's wall.

"I'm going to ask you one more time before I get nasty," Damon spoke through gritted teeth. "Where is the cache?"

"Please," he sobbed. "I beg you. I know nothing."

 _You brought this onto yourself,_ Damon thought. He let go of the fat man's collar and he sank down to the cobbled street. The black haired man pulled out his dagger and grabbed onto what little remained of the man's hair. Damon forced the man to look at him and at his knife. "I sharpen this dagger for an hour every night before I go to sleep. It has put holes in many men, most were stronger than you. I imagine it'll be quite easy to carve you up, to slice off a pound of flesh. By the time I would be done with you, I imagine you'll be an awful lot skinnier. Then when all of your flesh has been peeled off I will force it back down your throat and slice off whatever fat comes back."

The man whimpered and cried but he kept his mouth firmly shut. Damon placed the dagger onto the humongous belly of the merchant but he still did not break. He cut open the man's robes revealing his large breasts. Damon grabbed onto the left one and placed the dagger onto the skin. The man was begging him to not do it but Damon told him it would stop when he told him the location of the cache. The man looked away then, back into the street where people were pretending not to notice them.

Damon pressed his dagger into the skin and a bead of crimson blood slid down onto the man's belly. He still did not budge. Damon was starting to worry that he would actually have to flay the man to get what he wanted. All the other merchants had broken as soon as he had laid hands on them. Now a river was beginning to pour onto the man's belly and he screamed, "I'll tell you! Just make it stop!"

The Westerosi knight took his blade off of the man's exposed skin. The blood still poured onto the man's belly and it mixed with sweat and tears as well. "All right, so where is the cache?" Damon questioned holding the knife to his throat.

"It's lies in the shadow of the closest hill to the Sunrise gate. It is buried at the foot of an olive tree," the man blubbered. _That sounds awfully poetic,_ Damon thought as he pulled the knife away from the fat merchant's throat.

Damon left him there and walked out onto the street after he cleaned his dagger on the man's robes. The streets were busy as they always were this low in the city and this close to the docks. Even from here, Damon could hear the ships sailing into port and the seagulls cries over the bustling of the crowd. The former prince walked towards the docks, he took a green apple from the fat man's cart and chewed on it as he past a bravo in the street who eyed him threateningly and put his hand to his blade's pommel. _All of these men are looking for fights._ Damon ignored him and moved on.

The streets were much better than King's Landing, they were cleaner for a start although that wasn't saying much. You couldn't turn a corner in King's Landing without seeing some horse dung or a man taking a piss. In Pentos, it was much better, the sewage system worked which was a massive bonus to its cleanliness. Damon turned a corner onto the Street of Peddlers and had to jump out of the way of a boy sprinting down the street. _Most likely a runner._ The mob bosses employed the homeless boys and girls to send messages for them and in return they got something to eat. They also doubled as pickpockets on occasion and there was no better place to try and fill one's pockets with stolen coin than the Street of Peddlers. Stalls and carts created the makeshift walls of the street where peddlers sold their wares, that was how the street had received its name in the first place.

The Street led Damon to the Merchant's Maze but he had heard it before he saw it. The Merchant's Maze had been a yard at some point, Damon had been told, in the long distant past before merchants had overrun the square with their stalls and crates of goods, which had created makeshift walls of timber, shacks and cloth that made the square worthy of the name Maze. The Merchant's Maze was a hive of activity, it put the Street of Peddlers to shame. Damon had remembered that King's Landing had stunk wherever you went but here in the Merchant's Maze, the scent of spices and perfumes assaulted his nostrils, it smelt better than the Red Keep had.

But the Maze was not just a sweet aroma, it was a cascade of winding streets with merchants from the far corners of the Known World. Damon walked past a Tyroshi with a trident purple beard and golden mustachios with a waterfall of hair falling onto his shoulders. _Eccentric even for a Tyroshi._ Damon had learned much of the world during his short stay in Pentos, instead of looking down on merchants from Aegon's High Hill or Casterly Rock he now walked amongst them and learned everything he could. He even learned some of their languages, he had already known High Valyrian fluently from his teaching but now he could speak many bastard tongues and even some Ghiscari, the more tongues he learned, the easier it was to learn more.

Damon walked past a winseller trying to persuade him to buy an Arbor gold but he turned him down immediately, he had not had a drink since Duskendale and he preferred it to stay that way. A Lysene jeweller tried to sell him a purple sapphire ring that went with his eyes but Damon pushed the trader away when he came too close. A Myrmen was selling dresses and carpets with her fine fabrics, a Qohorik wanted Damon to buy a proper sword from him, a Braavosi wanted to hire him as a caravan guard and a Norvoshi was trying to sell some golden bells, poorly.

Through all of the buzz and activity, Damon heard a dozen different things. The first was that the Dothraki were split once more, a great Khal had died and now there was half a dozen Khals that sprung to take the dead one's place. The Volantenes supposedly were to vote two Tigers to the Triarchy and another Century of Blood was to follow the election. A spice merchant who had sailed from Tyrosh said that war was on the horizon between Tyrosh and Lys while Myr was being dragged into the conflict to fight on either side.

He found his way out of the Merchant's Maze and went into the lower parts of the city. The slums of Pentos lived up to the name, beggars lined the streets like soldiers in formation. They clawed at your feet to get you to notice them and the only way to get them to halt was to kick their hands away which Damon had obliged them. A boy tried to cut Damon's pouch from his belt but he caught the boy's hand and threw him against the wall. He stood up, called him "Bastard" in Pentoshi and scurried down an alleyway.

Damon walked along the slums' streets until he came upon a simple stone house with a yellow door, he threw his apple aside. A hooded Volantene was standing guard outside of the house. The man's eyes were hidden but his chin was burnt and he always spoke with gritted teeth. Damon had never seen the man behind the hood but he guessed that the man's scars would make Sandor Clegane's scars like a small blemish.

"I'm here to see Samarro," Damon told him, looking down at him.

The man made a grunt. "Why do you wish to see him?" His voice was unnerving, his voice sounded like wood on sandpaper and it made Damon's spine crawl when he thought about it too much.

"I've news about the missing cache," Damon looked into where his eyes ought to be but he wasn't sure they would be. "Does Samarro not want the money owed to him?"

The Volantene grunted but moved out of his way. Damon walked up the steps and pushed the yellow door open. The air was thick and Damon covered his mouth as he coughed. The room was large but mostly unfurnished except for the desk at the far edge of the house where Samarro sat, counting coins. He arranged a pile of coins and then placed to the side with a dozen other piles like it, he wrote down something in his ledger as the wooden floor beneath Damon's feet creaked.

The Summer Islander's head shot up, "Ah, Daryn Thatcher, my favourite Westerosi." His High Valyrian was spoken eloquently but he still had a thick Summer Island accent. He got up from his chair and walked over to Damon puling him into a hug. "You have returned with good news I hope." Samarro returned to his chair.

"I have," said Damon, walking forward to stand in front of the desk. "Horacio spoke of the cache," Samarro leaned forward in interest, "it is as the others said, in the shadow of the hill at an olive tree."

"That is good, that is very good." Samarro smiled, his yellow teeth made him ugly when paired with his ebony skin. "I hope that we are still friends with good Horacio. There was no lasting marks on our friendship?"

"None anyone will ever see," Damon said, smiling.

Samarro laughed and batted his knee. "This is why you are my favourite Westerosi!" Samarro pointed at him.

"I thought Luke had been your favourite Westerosi?" Damon questioned.

Samarro harumphed, "He had been but then he ran off in search of gold and women and golden women!" Lucion had left Samarro's employ at Damon's urging, they needed to find allies and they couldn't do that while both of them worked as thugs for a mob boss. They had both decided it was safer for Damon to stay here as just another thug while he went in search of people who would try and help him. That had been a fortnight ago and Damon hadn't heard from him since.

"Don't all men search for that?" Damon asked, it was best to keep Samarra happy, Damon's position here wasn't safe. He kept expecting to see a knife in his back, something Samarro was notorious for was killing thugs who had displeased him. So Damon had used all the flattery he had learned in King's Landing to stay on his good side.

The Summer Islander laughed heartily. "You my friend should be a scholar and you should spout your wisdom to the entire world. No doubt the world needs to hear some wisdom, in your homeland, it seems that everybody's minds have left them and now all they do is kill one another. If it were up to me, I would put you on their iron chair and let you rule the Sunset Kingdoms." _You'll find no complaint from me,_ Damon thought. _Someday I'll return to Westeros and I will wrench Joffrey's hands off the throne if that is what it will take._

Damon smiled, "Not all men can be as smart as us, Samarro."

"Never a truer word has been uttered, Master Thatcher." Samarro went back to counting his coins. "I want you to collect the cache and bring it back by sundown. You will bring my nephew, Gelryo, and the Volantene, he will scare anyone away who tries to approach!" The mob boss grinned. "Get the shovels, they will be in the corner by the barrel. I will get young Grelyo!"

Damon went to where his boss told him to and he found the shovels by the barrel. The wooden handles were rough and splinters jutted out of them, the metal spades were rusty, the orange rust covered most of the metal. When Damon returned to Samarro's desk, Grelyo was standing there with him. The Summer Islander was as old as Damon but he seemed more youthful than Damon had ever been. He was handsome in an exotic sort of way, he had white teeth and dark Ebony skin with his hair all shaved off. He wore a quiver full of arrows at his hip and a shortbow on his back.

"Daryn!" Grelyo said, excitedly. "It is good to see you." Samarro's nephew had been very kind to Damon ever since he was employed by Samarro, like Damon, Grelyo's father was dead but he had died in a street fight against another mob. But no matter how friendly he had been, Damon could not bring himself to trust him. He had trusted his grandfather and he killed his lover, he had trusted Joffrey not to take their rivalry too far but he named him a traitor and forced him to flee his homeland.

"It is good to see you as well, Grelyo," said Damon, forcing a smile on his face.

"The both of you must leave now if you want to the get the cache back by sundown," Samarro said as he shooed them out of the door.

Damon and Grelyo walked down the steps and joined with the Volantene. Damon thought they must have made an odd group, a Westerosi knight carrying two shovels, a Summer Islander archer and a hooded Volantene. None in the slums dared look at them because they recognised Grelyo and the Volantene but as they left the slums behind and walked through the Merchant's Maze and Street of Peddlers, most men and women gawked at him.

"What do you think it means?" Damon looked up to the sky where Grelyo was looking. In the clear blue stood a red wound, a single blemish on an otherwise perfect sky. The Bleeding Star was what the locals had called it and it had different meanings to every single person, some thought it meant a good harvest, others thought it an ill omen, the Priests of Rh'llor spoke of Azor Ahai being reborn as we speak. Damon didn't think it meant anything. He had always been cynical but whatever little faith he had in the gods had been dashed when all of the ill fortune had befallen him, now Damon believed nothing other than the world was filled with vicious cunts who want to see you dead in the ground.

"I don't know and I don't care," said Damon as he avoided a vegetable cart.

"Uncle Samarro believes it means that war is coming," commented Grelyo, sounding as innocent as a maiden.

"There is always going to be wars," Damon stated. "Are the gods going to send a star every time war is declared?"

"Your country is at war isn't it? Maybe that's why the Bleeding Star has been sent." Grelyo looked at him. "Is that why you left the Sunset Kingdoms? Because of the war?" Damon wanted to tell him to mind his own business but Grelyo would tell Samarro and Damon would be dead before he could explain himself.

"I left Westeros because my father died." It was technically the truth, if not the whole truth.

"Was he the one to teach you High Valyrian?" Damon wanted to shout at him to stop pestering him with these questions.

"No, my grandfather taught me." _And thank the Seven he did, else I would be at a serious disadvantage in Pentos._

"And where is your grandfather?" _Off somewhere k_ _illing babies most likely,_ Damon wanted to say. "Is he still in Westeros?"

"Yes, my grandfather is still in Westeros." Damon didn't say anything more than he needed to. If Samarro discovered who Damon truly was then the mob boss would sell Damon to Joffrey in a heartbeat.

"I've never been to Westeros! I wonder what it would be like to be there now." Damon bristled, Grelyo was more of a chatterbox than anyone he had ever known, even Tommen.

"Who do you support in Westeros' war?" Damon looked toward the Summer Islander menacingly. Thinking who the participants of the war were only made his anger boil up inside of him. Damon had left Duskendale when news had begun to arrive that Robb Stark had taken Riverrun and defeated his uncle in battle while Lord Tywin defeated a different Stark army at the Green Fork. When Damon had heard that Renly had proclaimed himself as the King of the Seven Kingdoms, he nearly went into a rage but Lucion had calmed him down. Renly had stolen Damon's betrothed and now marched on King's Landing with over one hundred thousand men, if you believed the rumours. Damon would have welcomed his uncle to kill Joffrey with those swords but Tommen and Myrcella would be put in harm's way, never mind the fact that Damon was planning on taking the throne one day.

When Damon was young he had loathed the idea of ever sitting on the iron monstrosity and he was overjoyed that he would never have to rule from it. It wasn't just he didn't want to sit on the chair because it was uncomfortable but he didn't want to have to be King of all Seven Kingdoms. He saw what it did to his father, Aerys II had supposedly been a charming prince but he became mad when he was king and within a few moments of sitting on the throne, Joffrey had ordered Damon to be killed. If Damon didn't believe in magic, he would have said that the throne was cursed. _And I want to sit on it, just to reap vengeance on my brother and spite all those who named me traitor._

"Well?" Grelyo said, taking Damon from his thoughts. "Who do you support?"

"None of them, I think they're all fools." _None more so than I._ "I believe they will get themselves all killed and then someone else will swoop in and steal the victory from underneath their noses." _That's the plan anyway._

Grelyo continued to talk about how much he wanted to travel in the future, to see his ancestral homeland of the Summer Islands, to see the Wall in the North and to sail across the Jade Sea. Damon stopped listening to him as he began to talk about the wonders of Qarth on the far side of the world. He wondered where his quest to become King of the Seven Kingdoms would take him. The only recorded successes of an invasion from Essos to Westeros was the First Men crossing the Arm of Dorne, Aegon's Conquest and the Andal invasion but the Seven Kingdoms weren't even seven kingdoms in those days and Aegon had three fully grown dragons behnd him with riders as well. Damon doubted he would have any dragons for his invasion so he thought of another family of Valyrian descent who were famed for invading Westeros from Essos, the Blackfyres.

Five Blackfyre rebellions in the last hundred years, the most recent war was the War of the Ninepenny Kings where Barristan Selmy carved a bloody path through the ranks of the Golden Company and personally slew Maelys the Monstrous. The most successful Blackfyre rebellion had been the first and even then it was crushed within a year. The second, third and fourth were all quite forgettable, yet the one constant between them all was that they had all failed. _Will I fail?_ Damon wondered. Four times the Blackfyres had invaded Westeros and four times they had been thrown back by the Targaryens. Even if Damon had the Golden Company and a dozen other mercenary companies would he have enough to invade Westeros. Damon couldn't win without the lords on his side and there had to be a lot of them, Daemon Blackfyre had dozens of lords who answered his call but he still failed.

Damon thought of the the first Blackfyre king and how similar they actually were. There fathers both fathered many bastards and were extremely overweight. Daemon had been considered the warrior of the two brothers and Damon had never been beaten by Joffrey in a sword fight. They both plotted against their older brothers after they had been mistreated by them and they both had similar sounding names. Damon wondered if his rebellion failed would his descendants terrorise the Seven Kingdoms like the Blackfyre Pretenders had or would his rebellion stop with him?

"The Prince that was Promised comes!"

Damon's head looked up to see a Priestess of R'hlorr, she was beautiful Damon could tell even from the distance between. She had long hair the colour of burnished copper that matched her long red dress.

"I have seen him in the flames! There will come a day after a long summer when the stars bleed and the cold breath of darkness falls heavy on the world. In this dread hour a warrior shall draw from the fire a burning sword. And that sword shall be Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes, and he who clasps it shall be Azor Ahai come again, and the darkness shall flee before him." The sound of her voice washed over the crowds and it made the hairs on the back of Damon's neck stand up, such was her effect. Many people had gathered to see the red woman speak and she seemed to float above them all in an other-worldly manner.

"That is his sign!" the priestess pointed to the sky at the red comet. "The sign of his coming for when the red star bleeds and the darkness gathers, Azor Ahai shall be born again amidst salt and smoke to wake dragons out of stone!" When Damon looked down from the sky the red woman was looking directly at him with an intense gaze. "Now is the hour of his coming, he shall defeat the darkness and unyield an era of R'hlorr's light upon the world!"

Damon had been so entranced with the priestess that he didn't even know that he had stopped walking until Grelyo tapped him on the shoulder. When he looked back at the red woman her eyes had moved on from him and he shaked off the sense of dread creeping up his spine.

The chatterbox Grelyo kept on talking but Damon didn't listen, he was still unnerved by the red woman's speech. Damon had never put much stock in anything prophesied but the power in the priestess' voice made him believe for a moment before he shook his head at the notion. _I need a drink,_ he thought. _I'm starting to believe in the occult, soon I'll be doing a funny dance around a bonfire._ Damon hadn't touched a drop of alcohol since his father died, whenever he was offered a drink he couldn't help but think that that killed his father and that he wouldn't let it kill him like it did King Robert.

Damon stewed in his depressing thoughts which had become a regular occurrence of late until they found the olive tree behind the first hill outside the Sunrise gate. Damon tossed one shovel to Grelyo and the Volantene stood watch as he maintained his silence while Damon searched for an area that looked recently dug up. He found an area at the back of the tree where lots of fallen leaves were used to cover up a patch of recently dug dirt.

Damon plunged the shovel into the ground and began to dig, Grelyo joined soon after that and together they made quick work of the whole. _How the mighty have fallen,_ Damon thought as he tossed some dirt out of the hole that was forming under him. Damon wished to see his grandfather watch him do this, to see how his precious heir was doing grunt work. Damon could only picture his grandfather's stony silence but his gold-flecked smouldering with an intense rage. His mother would be appalled and would give him a tongue lashing about acting properly. Joffrey would be extremely pleased to know how far his brother had fallen and that it was all because of him.

Grelyo was whistling a tune Damon hadn't heard before and the Volantene looked into the hole every now and then but did or said nothing. Damon's grunts were much louder than Grelyo but the Summer Islander didn't seem to break a sweat from the digging. It was only after the hole that had been dug deep enough was that he noticed his side was much deeper than Grelyo's, his only knee deep but Damon's was waist deep. Damon was about to say something to him when his shovel hit on something hard in the ground.

He knelt down and saw the small chest. He dug the rest of the way with his hands and when enough of the chest was above ground he pulled it free from its position. Damon picked it up and handed it the Volantene, who still wore his hooded cloak. Damon didn't know why Samarro wanted the cache so desperately or why the merchants had known the location of it. In this kind of business it was dangerous to ask too many questions. The Volantene opened the box with Grelyo looking over his shoulder and he gave a nod. Damon nodded himself and turned back towards the hole he dug to see if there was anything else.

That was when he felt a sharp pain in his shoulder and when he looked down he saw an arrowhead. He touched the blood that poured from his chest, disbelievingly. Damon turned around to see Grelyo drawing a second arrow from his quiver. The Volantene had his back turned and was still looking in the chest. "I'm sorry, Daryn," said Grelyo, nocking his second arrow. "I truly liked you but its my uncle's orders."

 _What?_ Damon thought as the Summer Islander drew the arrow back with the bowstring. _No,_ it couldn't end like this, he still had to go back to Westeros and show Joffrey who the better one of the two was. He had to go back and force Tywin Lannister to bend the knee to him and punish him for his actions. He had to go back and hold Myrcella and Tommen one last time. "Wai—" Damon never finished the sentence as Grelyo had released the bowstring and the force from the second arrow knocked him into the whole.

Damon looked up from the hole at the olive branches swaying in the afternoon breeze and at Grelyo who had drawn a third arrow in his quiver and released it into Damon's gut. The shock of being shot with the arrows had numbed him to the pain but now he felt it and he let loose a gut wrenching scream but he stopped quickly because it just made the arrow in his gut hurt more. The last thing Damon remembered was looking up at Grelyo as he began to bury him alive.

 _Damon's eyes opened and he screamed in terror, he felt his chest for the arrows but nothing was there. Damon's breathing sped up and he felt terrified._ Was he dead? _he wondered. Damon thought death would be different than this, he didn't know what he expected but he didn't expect this. Damon tried to get up from the floor just to realise that he was standing up on his two feet already._ Strange, _Damon could have sworn that he had woken on his back._

 _The strange place that he now found himself in looked eerily similar to the Red Keep except the world appeared dark, gloomy and disjointed. Shadows ran across the walls, gone as fast as they came, but no one was there to cast them and no light to create them. A chill ran up his spine, everything felt off here, like it was two pieces of a puzzle that just didn't fit. The shadows on the wall felt like they were_ watching _him even though that wasn't possible. Right?_

 _He began to wander and soon enough he was sure that he was in the Red Keep, the walls were not red but the halls were familiar. All of his senses seemed to heighten, he wasn't sure if that was because of the lack of distractions or not but his boots sounded like an army marching and his breathing felt like a lion's roar. When he came to the door that should have led him outside, it just led to another hallway. Damon spent what felt like hours searching for a way out but none showed itself, he was trapped in a maze that used his memories of his home against him. Eventually, Damon found his way to the Throne Room._

 _It was larger than he remembered and the roof was torn off to reveal a bleak black sky with no moon to shine. He began to walk to the Iron Throne at the back, like the hall, the iron monstrosity seemed larger as well, the swords of the throne stretched so high that they fell into the black sky above. Although the distance seemed long, it took less than half a minute to reach the throne and climb its steps. He sat down and looked at the shadows on the walls and the floors. Was he to spend eternity like this? Looking down on his shadowy subjects on a throne that was determined to pierce him with it's blades?_

 _Damon looked down the steps and waited, he didn't do anything, he just sat and waited for . . . something. H_ _e couldn't tell if time was passing. A minute could have passed, a year, his sister could be grey by now or her bones could have been dust for all Damon knew. That was when Damon saw it, a red dot at the other end of the hall, a dab of red in a sea of darkness. He felt something then. Was it hope? It felt so long since he had felt anything, he had resigned to the fact that he destined to rule over his shadowy subjects from his iron monstrosity._

 _The King of Shadows descended from his throne and began to move towards the dot. As it came closer and closer, Damon saw it clearly. It was a person, a woman who was cloaked in shadow was what he first thought but she was actually wearing a black hooded robe. There was nothing remarkable about it but Damon thought everything of it._ _When you were surrounded by shadows for so long, you soaked in every detail when something material appeared. The robe was creased under the arms and it was smallest at the woman's midriff with a buxom form. The large volumous sleeves hid her hands as it fell to the feet of the robe. The robe did not pool at the ground but instead fell straight down and it made the woman look like she was floating. Damon wouldn't have been sure if the robed woman was actually a person if it wasn't for what he saw behind her mask. The woman wore a dark red lacquered wooden mask and behind them were her eyes, shiny and wet. Damon saw every eye he had looked at in them. He saw his mother's disapproving emeralds, his grandfather's piercing gold-flecked eyes, his father's drunken sapphires, Joffrey's arrogant gaze, Tyrion's mismatched look, Jaime's cat eyes, Tommen's shy look, Jeyne's soft doe eyes and Myrcella's sweet emerald gaze._

 _"Do you see me?" Damon whispered, but his voice echoed loudly bouncing off of the walls._

 _"Yes." Damon nearly cried in relief that he wasn't alone, that another person could speak to him, it had been so long._ Had it? _he wondered but he pushed the thought away._

 _"Am . . . am I dead?" He was hesitant to ask._

 _"No." Her words were spoken in a monotone voice but Damon could hear an eastern accent in her words._

 _He breathed a sigh of relief and felt like crying but no tears fell. "Is this a dream?" To Damon, it was the only explanation now, it had to be a dream._

 _"No."_

 _Damon despaired. Had he been sentenced to something worse than death. Perhaps this was one of the Seven Hells that truly terrible people were sent to. "Then where are we?" he asked._

 _"We are in the in-between." Her voice betrayed no emotion. "We are where death meets life and where life meets death. We are on the border of everything but we are in nothing."_

 _Damon shook his head at the cryptic nonsense. "Will I ever get out of here?" He tried to grab her by the shoulders but she moved away from him and the shadows dragged his hands down._

 _She turned to face him. "You will, when you hear my words. Listen well for these words will not only affect you, they will be vital to the survival of everyone in the known world._

 _"To go north, you must go south. To reach the west, you must go east. You must lead the light to the darkness, the fire to the ice." He had had enough of this cryptic nonsense._

 _"Speak plain words so that I might understand you," Damon shouted, he covered his ears in agony but the masked woman did nothing but blink._

 _The red-masked woman continued speaking, "The fate of the world depends on you. Beware the Red Man_ _. Remember the false stag, Protect the Dragon_ _"_

 _Something coiled around his wrists then and as he looked back he saw the throne had opened up like a dragon's maw. Damon fought against it but it was useless to struggle, the more he struggled, the swords dug themselves deeper into his wrists. He tried to yell to masked woman for help but she was gone, he was left with only shadows again. Damon then decided that he didn't want to fight any more and he surrendered himself to the vice–like grip of the throne. He was pulled back swiftly and pushed into an abyss._

Everything at once then assaulted his nostrils, the salty tang of the sea, the stench of tonics and poultices, the sweet smell of honey, the musky scent of a smoking fire and the pungent odour of an unwashed person. Damon felt the woollen bandages around his stomach and shoulders, the soft silk sheets that covered him, the sea breeze and the heat from the fire. Damon could also feel the sting of his wounds but they didn't hurt as they should, they felt glorious. He could hear the crackling of wood, the _whoosh_ ing noise of breeze and the whispered prayers of a familiar voice.

Damon opened his eyes and he was blinded by such bright lights but he smiled at them, after seeing nothing but shadows for such a long time it was absolutely terrific. As the world began to dim, Damon became more aware of his surroundings. He stared up at a canopy of his bed and for a moment he thought he was back in his chambers at the Red Keep but one glance out the window told Damon that it was not so. He was still in Pentos but that was fine because of the sight of the person at his bedside.

Lucion had cleaned up very nicely, gone was the scraggly beard and the long unkempt hair. He had cut it short and it now fell around his ears but it went no further. His sworn shield was wearing fine clothes and he had a new decorated sword on his belt. Lucion was praying, his hands clasped together and his knuckles white. Damon tried to say something to his friend but he could only grunt. Lucion's head shot up, he had large bags under his eyes, they were also puffy red, his forehead was creased with worry but Damon had never seen a bigger smile on his face. His friend hugged him and Damon found out that it was Lucion that wore the pungent odor and not him.

"You're awake, thank the Seven," Lucion spoke hoarsely.

"I am," Damon's voice was barely a whisper, his throat was sore. He licked his cracked lips.

"I can't believe it," Lucion smiled with tears of joy pouring down his face.

"You better believe it. Did you think a few arrows could keep me down?" Damon tried to sit up in his bed but Lucion stopped him.

He gently pushed Damon back onto his pillow. "The healer said that you shouldn't move much when you woke up and I don't want you to risk hurting yourself so you won't be doing anything without me approving it first."

"Healer?" Damon looked around and noticed how decorated this place actually was. The pale walls were decorated with paintings of naked men and woman with a tall marble statue in the corner that looked like a little boy standing over a giant. There was a fire on one side of the room, the smoke floating to the roof and exiting from the room through the open window with a magnificent view of the Narrow Sea. The water glistened as it reflected the sun. "Where are we, Lucion?"

Lucion sighed, rubbed his eyes and looked at his feet. "We are in a magister's manse, Damon. This man wants to help us, trust me." He looked Damon in the eye.

"His name is Illyrio Mopatis."


	19. ACOK Renly I

A field had been cleared off, fences and galleries and tilting barriers thrown up. Hundreds were gathered to watch, perhaps thousands. They had been at it for nearly a full day, the ground was torn and muddy and littered with bits of dinted armor and broken lances, but now the end was near. Fewer than a score of knights remained ahorse, charging and slashing at each other as watchers and fallen combatants cheered them on. Two destriers collided with the knights on top in full armor, both men and beasts were going down in a tangle of steel and horseflesh.

A roar went up from the crowd when the helmetless Red Ronnet Connington went down to a warrior in blue. The warrior's steel was a deep cobalt, even the blunt morningstar the the warrior wielded with such deadly effect, the mount under the person was barded in the quartered sun-and-moon heraldry of House Tarth. _Lord Selwyn did not lie about his daughter's skill with a blade._ Renly's thoughts were interrupted when a man had fallen and was now trapped beneath his horse, both of them screaming in pain. Squires rushed out to aid them.

The lords and ladies beside Renly in the gallery were so engrossed in the melee on the ground, they did not see the auburn haired lady being led to them by Ser Colen. Renly had wondered when Robb Stark would send an envoy to meet him, the boy was winning the war against Tywin Lannister but he didn't have enough men to soundly defeat the Old Lion of the Rock so Renly had anticipated that he would come seek an alliance with the King in the South. Renly had thought of sending an envoy to Riverrun but had decided against it. It would have made him look weaker in the eyes of some of his hardened lords like Randyll Tarly, to go begging aid from a boy before his army had even wetted their blades with Lannister blood.

Loras then knocked off another knight that Renly didn't recognise, he had so many in his service he was hard pressed to remember a tenth of their names but nonetheless he shouted his approval with the rest. "Loras!" the beauty beside him called. "Loras! Highgarden!" His queen clapped together in excitement.

The woman who shared the high seat with him was his young queen, Margaery, daughter to Lord Mace Tyrell and Loras' sister. Their marriage was the mortar that held the great southron alliance together. When Renly had resolved to put forth his claim he offered his hand to Margaery at Loras' urging. Lord Mace had puffed up like a blowfish and he must have said that he was honoured dozens of times before he finally accepted the proposal. Renly then married the doe eyed Tyrell, who was five years younger than him and beautiful to all but her beauty did not have any effect on Renly.

Only four men were left in the fight now, and like Renly, the commons were cheering for Loras. He had stood out in this melee, proving to everyone that he was one of the best fighters in the army, if not the best. Loras rode a tall white stallion in silver mail, and fought with a long-handled axe. A crest of golden roses ran down the center of his helm.

Two of the other survivors had made common cause. They spurred their mounts toward the warrior in the cobalt armor. As they closed to either side, the blue warrior reined hard, smashing one man full in the face with his splintered shield while his black destrier lashed out with a steel-shod hoof at the other. In a blink, one combatant was unhorsed, the other reeling. The blue warrior let his broken shield drop to the ground to free his left arm, and then Loras—never one to miss an opportunity—was on her. The weight of his steel seemed to hardly diminish the grace and quickness with which Loras moved, his rainbow cloak swirling about him.

The white horse and the black one wheeled like lovers at a harvest dance, the riders throwing steel in place of kisses. Longaxe flashed and morningstar whirled. Both weapons were blunted, yet still they raised an awful clangor. Shieldless, the blue knight was getting much the worse of it. Loras rained down blows on his head and shoulders, to shouts of "Highgarden!" from the throng. The other gave answer with his morningstar, but whenever the ball came crashing in, Loras interposed his battered green shield, emblazoned with three golden roses. When the longaxe caught the blue warrior's hand on the backswing and sent the morningstar flying from his grasp, the crowd screamed like a rutting beast. The Knight of Flowers raised his axe for the final blow.

The blue warrior charged into it. The stallions slammed together, the blunted axehead smashed against the scarred blue breastplate but the blue warrior had the haft locked between steel-gauntleted fingers. She wrenched it from Loras' hand, and suddenly the two were grappling mount-to-mount, and an instant later they were falling. As their horses pulled apart, they crashed to the ground with bone-jarring force. Renly gasped in fear for his knight for Loras had landed on the bottom and had taken the brunt of the impact. As some of the lords and ladies in the galllery gave him sideways glances, Renly cursed himself for getting emotional. There had been enough rumours about Renly ever since he had skipped the bedding ceremony with Margaery and had not called on her chambers after that. Renly had come up with the lie that he made a vow that he would not lay with his wife until he sat atop the Iron Throne and most people accepted that but that did not stop them spreading rumours behind his back. The blue warrior pulled a long dirk free and flicked open Loras' visor. The roar of the crowd was too loud for Renly to hear what he said but he could read his face easily enough and it said one word. Yield.

The blue warrior climbed unsteadily to her feet, and raised her dirk in the direction of Renly Baratheon, the salute of a champion to their king. Squires dashed onto the field to help the vanquished knight to his feet. When they got his helm off, Renly did not want to look on it but he did all the same. Loras was usually as comely as his sister, but the broken lip, unfocused eyes, and blood trickling through his matted hair made it hard to recognise it now.

"Approach," Renly called to the champion, waving her forward.

She limped toward the gallery. At close hand, the brilliant blue armor looked rather less splendid; everywhere it showed scars, the dents of mace and warhammer, the long gouges left by swords, chips in the enameled breastplate and helm. Her cloak hung in rags. From the way she moved, Brienne of Tarth was no less battered. A few voices hailed her with cries of "Tarth!" and, "A Beauty! A Beauty!" accompanied by snickering, but most were silent. Brienne knelt before Renlt. "Grace," she said, her voice muffled by his dented greathelm.

"You are all your lord father claimed you were." Renly's voice carried over the field. "I've seen Ser Loras unhorsed once or twice . . . but never quite in that fashion."

"That were no proper unhorsing," complained a drunken archer nearby, a Tyrell rose sewn on his jerkin. "A vile trick, pulling the lad down."

"I, King Renly, declare the Lady Brienne of Tarth the victor of the great melee at Bitterbridge, last mounted of one hundred and sixteen knight," Renly declared. "As champion, you may ask of me any boon that you desire. If it lies in my power, it is yours."

"Your Grace," Brienne answered, "I ask the honor of a place among your Rainbow Guard. I would be one of your seven, and pledge my life to yours, to go where you go, ride at your side, and keep you safe from all hurt and harm."

Renly internally sighed, he had been saving the last spot for Ser Barristan the Bold but alas the aged knight had not been seen since he had escaped King's Landing all those moons ago after he had been dismissed from Joffrey's Kingsguard. Renly had hoped the Stormlander knight would come to Renly and swear allegiance to him, for such a storied knight to ride alongside him would have been a great boon and it would have won what little smallfolk that remained that didn't support him. But Renly could not wait forever for someone who would never come. The idea of a female Kingsguard amused him as well.

"Done," he said. "Rise, and remove your helm."

She did as he bid her. And when the greathelm was lifted, her ugly face was revealed.

Beauty, the men had taken to calling her . . . mocking. The hair beneath the visor was a squirrel's nest of dirty straw, and her face . . . Brienne's eyes were large and very blue, a young girl's eyes, trusting and guileless, but all of her features were broad and coarse, her teeth prominent and crooked, her mouth too wide, her lips so plump they seemed swollen. A thousand freckles speckled her cheeks and brow, and her nose had been broken more than once. Renly remembered seeing the girl for the first time, some boys were being mean to her and he had asked her to dance. She had accepted immediately and when the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands had danced with her, the boys who bullied her had shut up soon after that.

And yet, when Renly cut away her torn cloak and fastened a rainbow in its place, Brienne of Tarth did not look unfortunate. Her smile lit up her face, and her voice was strong and proud as she said, "My life for yours, Your Grace. From this day on, I am your shield, I swear it by the old gods and the new." The way she looked at him—looked down at him, she was a good hand higher, though Renly was near as tall as his brother had been—was painful to see.

"Your Grace!" Ser Colen of Greenpools swung down off his horse to approach the gallery. "I beg your leave." He went to one knee. "I have the honor to bring you the Lady Catelyn Stark, sent as envoy by her son Robb, Lord of Winterfell."

"Lord of Winterfell and King in the North, ser," Catelyn corrected him. She dismounted and moved to Ser Colen's side. Renly bristled at the fact she called her son king. _That won't do at all but I shan't allow her to see me be annoyed by such trivialities._

Renly feigned surprise. "Lady Catelyn? We are most pleased." He turned to his young queen. "Margaery my sweet, this is the Lady Catelyn Stark of Winterfell."

"You are most welcome here, Lady Stark," his bride said, all soft courtesy. "I am sorry for your loss."

"You are kind," said Lady Catelyn.

"My lady, I swear to you, I will see that the Lannisters answer for your husband's murder," the king declared. "When I take King's Landing, I'll send you Cersei's head."

Renly was sure the woman wouldn't care for the head but the message was understood, he thought. "It will be enough to know that justice has been done, my lord."

"Your Grace," Brienne the Blue corrected sharply, Renly smiled. "And you should kneel when you approach the king."

"The distance between a lord and a grace is a small one, my lady," Lady Stark said. "Lord Renly wears a crown, as does my son. If you wish, we may stand here in the mud and debate what honors and titles are rightly due to each, but it strikes me that we have more pressing matters to consider."

Some of Renly's lords bristled at that, but the king only laughed. "Well said, my lady. There will be time enough for graces when these wars are done. Tell me, when does your son mean to march against Harrenhal?"

"I do not sit on my son's war councils, my lord," Lady Catelyn told him. She may not have sat on the war councils but she almost certainly knew where her son's troops were going. Renly knew that asking her was a long shot so he did not mind when she politely rejected to tell him.

"So long as he leaves a few Lannisters for me, I'll not complain. What has he done with the Kingslayer?"

"Jaime Lannister is held prisoner at Riverrun."

"Still alive?" Lord Mathis Rowan seemed dismayed.

Bemused, Renly said, "It would seem the direwolf is gentler than the lion."

"Gentler than the Lannisters," murmured Lady Oakheart with a bitter smile, "is drier than the sea."

"I call it weak." Lord Randyll Tarly had a short, bristly grey beard and a reputation for blunt speech. "No disrespect to you, Lady Stark, but it would have been more seemly had Lord Robb come to pay homage to the king himself, rather than hiding behind his mother's skirts."

"King Robb is warring, my lord," Catelyn replied with icy courtesy, "not playing at tourney."

Renly grinned. "Go softly, Lord Randyll, I fear you're overmatched." He summoned a steward in the livery of Storm's End. "Find a place for the lady's companions, and see that they have every comfort. Lady Catelyn shall have my own pavilion. Since Lord Caswell has been so kind as to give me use of his castle, I have no need of it. My lady, when you are rested, I would be honored if you would share our meat and mead at the feast Lord Caswell is giving us tonight. A farewell feast. I fear his lordship is eager to see the heels of my hungry horde."

"Not true, Your Grace," protested a wispy young Lord Caswell. "What is mine is yours."

"Whenever someone said that to my brother Robert, he took them at their word," Renly said. "Do you have daughters?"

"Yes, Your Grace. Two."

"Then thank the gods that I am not Robert. My sweet queen is all the woman I desire." Renly held out his hand to help Margaery to her feet. "We'll talk again when you've had a chance to refresh yourself, Lady Catelyn."

Renly led his bride back toward the castle while his steward conducted Lady Catelyn to the king's green silk pavilion. "If you have need of anything, you have only to ask, my lady."

The feast was a crowded one. Lord Caswell's great hall was not particularly great and with the influx of Lady Catelyn's retinue, the hall was tight for space with the large numbers. Tables and benches had been squeezed into every nook and cranny whilst knights were sat almost on top of each other, bundled together like buns on a plate.

Renly was thankful to be able to take his seat on the much less crowded dais and he smiled as he settled himself between Loras and Margaery. Having left both Mace Tyrell and Garlan behind with a portion of their soldiers several weeks ago now, he was able to have Loras at his right hand side without raising any eyebrows. Aside from making feasts a lot more enjoyable,

The food was plentiful and the drink even more so. As such, it did not take long for the atmosphere in the hall to become more than a little merry. Soon men were struggling to sit upright and the serving girls were batting away lecherous hands as they tried to place the platters of food on the table. One amongst them had clearly not moved fast enough though and had been bundled into Lord Varner's lap. She sat there with her plate of meat pies still in her hands, giggling awkwardly as the lord's hand snaked inside her bodice to fondle her breasts. No doubt the lord would find himself in trouble with his wife when he returned home.

Lord Varner, however, was not the only one playing with fire. Lord Bryce had goaded Ser Robar into juggling a brace of daggers, very sharp ones at that. Renly watched him with baited breath, crying in horror along with everyone else when Robar dropped a blade and then sighing with shared relief as it landed inches away from his foot. It was an exciting moment, and one that was apparently too exciting for Ser Guyard to resist. No sooner had the brace of daggers been put away had he ordered a new harp brought into the hall. Drunkenly dancing his fingers across his strings, he had composed a ballad in Ser Robar's honour, before moving on to an even poorer song about tying Lannister lions up in knots, only part of which rhymed.

Renly was trying to drown him out with merry conversation when Margaery caught his sleeve. "Oh look, Renly," she laughed. "Look."

Renly duly looked where she was pointing. Ser Tanton stood on the table, one foot in a gravy boat. He was gesticulating quite wildly and didn't seem to have noticed the thick sauce sloshing up his leg. Whatever he was talking about had got him rather incensed and he all but frothed at the mouth as those sat around him egged him on.

Renly could only just about make out his words and he turned to those next to him. "Who is he swearing to slay in single combat?" he asked, cupping a hand to his ear.

It was Loras who answered. "The Hound," he said dryly.

Renly snorted. He was more likely to see Loras would take a wife than see Ser Tanton slay Sandor Clegane in single combat. And neither was likely.

Ser Tanton continued though in that vein until one of Lord Caswell's fools stole his limelight. Glittering from head to toe in gilded tin and with a cloth lion's head upon his shoulders, the fool had bounded onto the dais in chase of a dwarf. Round and round the top table they ran, the lion waving a sheep's bladder at the dwarf every time he got close. Occasionally he would catch up and there would be a soft wet sound as the dwarf was whacked round the face with it.

Renly watched in bemusement.

"Pray tell," he asked when the fool next passed near enough to hear his words. "Why are you chasing your brother?"

The fool lolled to a halt, his fat belly wobbling like a jelly on a plate. "I'm the kinslayer, Your Grace."

Renly's face split into a disbelieving smile. "It's the Kingslayer, fool of a fool."

There was a roar of laughter from his subjects and Renly grinned. Almost immediately Guyard struck up on his harp again, launching into a tale of how the king had risen from his stool, so that he could correct the golden fool.

Knowing that this one would have to be improvised on the spot and would thus be one of the poorer songs of the evening, Renly stood abruptly from his chair. "Lady Catelyn," he called, finding her solemn face easily in the sea of merriment. "I feel the need of some air. Will you walk with me?"

She stood immediately; no doubt she had been waiting patiently all evening for an audience with him. "I should be honoured."

Brienne rose too, her new rainbow cloak hanging from her shoulders like a banner. "Your Grace," she said, "give me but a moment to don my mail. You should not be without protection."

Renly felt rather than saw Loras bristle beside him and he waved her back down to her seat with a smile. "If I am not safe in the heart of Lord Caswell's castle, with my own host around me, one sword will make no matter, not even _your_ sword, Brienne. Sit and eat. If I have need of you, I'll send for you."

Renly had meant the words kindly and yet he saw her face fall all the same. "As you will, Your Grace." She sank back into her seat rather dejectedly. Truly the girl would have preferred to follow him silently through the halls than sit and enjoy the feast. It beggared belief really.

It would look foolish to go back on his words though and so Renly merely took Lady Catelyn's arm to lead her from the hall.

"This way, my lady." Renly guided her through a door onto the steps that led up to the roof. Bitterbridge was not a large holdfast but even its mediocre height would suffice for what he wanted to show her. He turned to her as they climbed. "Perchance is Ser Barristan Selmy with your son at Riverrun?"

"No," she answered, her comely face clearly puzzled. "Is he no longer with Joffrey? He was the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard."

"The Lannisters told him he was too old and gave his cloak to the Hound," he explained. "I'm told he left King's Landing vowing to take up service with the true king. The cloak Brienne claimed today was the one I was keeping for Selmy, in hopes that he might offer me his sword. When he did not turn up at Highgarden, I thought perhaps he had gone to Riverrun instead." Renly had hoped the old knight would swear his sword to Renly's cause and add legitimacy to his claim.

"We have not seen him."

There was no lie in her eyes and Renly let out a soft sigh. "He was old, yes, but a good man still. I hope he has not come to harm. The Lannisters are great fools." He turned his face to Catelyn's. "On the night of Robert's death, I offered your husband a hundred swords against them and urged him to take Joffrey in his power. Had he listened, he would be regent today and there would have been no need for me to claim the throne."

"Ned refused you." It was not a question.

"He had sworn to protect Robert's children," Renly told her by way of explanation. "I lacked the strength to act alone, so when Lord Eddard turned me away, I had no choice but to flee. Had I stayed, I knew the queen would see to it that I did not long outlive my brother."

Bitterness passed across her face at those words and Renly wondered what she blamed him for. It was not his fault after all that her husband had been too rigid in his honour to take his advice.

"I liked your husband well enough, my lady," he added, trying to placate her. "He was a loyal friend to Robert, I know… But he would not listen and he would not bend."

She was silent to that and Renly wondered what she was thinking. He knew that even if she agreed with him, she would never voice it. She was too loyal to her husband for that and her opinion of his mistakes would no doubt go with her to the grave.

They'd reached the top of the tower now and Renly pushed open a door and led her out onto the roof. "Here," he said. "I wish to show you something."

The roof gave them a view of the surrounding countryside. In every direction for miles small fires flickered. Renly heard Lady Catelyn's small intake of breath as she took in their abundance.

"Count them if you like, my lady," he said quietly. "You will still be counting when dawn breaks in the east. How many fires burn around Riverrun tonight, I wonder?"

Lady Catelyn said nothing.

"I'm told your son crossed the Neck with twenty thousand swords at his back. Now that the lords of the Trident are with him, perhaps he commands forty thousand." Renly paused, searching her face again for the information she seemed determined to withhold. "I have twice that number here, and this is only part of my strength. Mace Tyrell remains at Highgarden with another ten thousand. I have a strong garrison holding Storm's End, and soon the Dornishmen will join me with all their power. And never forget my brother Stannis, who holds Dragonstone and commands the lords of the narrow sea."

"It would seem that you are the one who has forgotten Stannis," Lady Catelyn said, sharply.

"His claim, you mean?" Renly laughed. "Let us be blunt, my lady. Stannis will not put forth his claim, he would more likely throw in his lot with my nephew, Prince Damon. But my nephew has not been seen or heard from since he was named a traitor and if he was with Stannis, Damon would have put forth his claim immediately and sailed to King's Landing with all haste."

"And what of Prince Damon's claim? What gives you the right to put yourself ahead of him for the throne?" She spoke as if she was scolding a child. Renly thought if he put his hand out she would bite his arm off, so harshly she had spoken.

Renly shrugged and wondered if he'd wasted his time bringing Lady Catelyn up to the roof. "Tell me," he said, "what right did my brother Robert ever have to the Iron Throne? Oh there was talk of the blood ties between Baratheon and Targaryen, of weddings a hundred years past, of second sons and elder daughters. No one but the maesters care about any of it. Robert won the throne with his warhammer." He swept a hand across the campfires that burned from horizon to horizon. "Well there is my claim, as good as Robert's ever was. If your son supports me as his father supported Robert, he'll not find me ungenerous. I will gladly confirm him in all his lands, titles and honours. He can rule in Winterfell as he pleases. He can even go on calling himself King in the North if he likes, so long as he bends the knee and does me homage as his overlord. King is only a word, but fealty, loyalty, service… those I must have."

"And if he will not give them to you, my lord?"

Renly shrugged again; he hadn't thought that far. Only a fool opposed a force of a hundred thousand. "I mean to be King, my lady, and not of a broken kingdom. I cannot say it plainer than that. Three hundred years ago, a Stark king knelt to Aegon the Dragon, when he saw he could not hope to prevail. That was wisdom. Your son must be wise as well. Once he joins me, this war is good as done. We will be like Robert and Eddard, him and I. But know this, if he refuses, I will put down your rebellion after I'm finished with the Lannisters and install a Warden of the North who is more suited with the idea of me being King of all Seven Kingdoms."


	20. ACOK Damon II

It felt good to be wearing fine clothes again. The one shirt that he owned when he was working for Samarro had begun to chafe and it made him permanently uncomfortable while shaking down merchants. But the clothes that he wore now were made of silk and satin and it felt like he was wearing a cloud in comparison. The long blue silken tunic stretched down to his black boots, golden vines crept up the centre of the tunic from his belt to the collar, which was golden itself.

Damon had not eaten well since he had fled Westeros and whatever little fat he had was lost and only muscle remained, his arms corded with sinewy flesh and his stomach toned. His facial features had become more prominent, his high cheekbones had been sharper than ever and his cheeks had bordered on being gaunt. His hair was just a black fuzz on his head so he hadn't done anything to it but his host had sent a barber to trim his beard. Damon had not looked this princely in a long time and it was all thanks to his host.

Illyrio Mopatis was a Magister of Pentos and it was his manse that's Damon had been taken to after Lucion had saved him from Grelyo and the Volantene, killing both of them before they could bury Damon alive. He had woken up in a bed as soft as a cloud with Lucion praying by his side. Soon after Lucion had explained to him what had happened, the fat Magister had walked into the room.

"You are finally awake," the fat man had thrown his hands up with joy as he barged into the room. Damon had just been allowed to sit up by Lucion and jumped with fright at the sudden intrusion. A shot of pain burst through his gut and shoulder. "It is good to see that you are awake. For a moment I had feared that you had passed on but I am joyously mistaken. Although I should not be surprised, even across the Narrow Sea we have heard of the vitality of the Baratheons."

"You know who I am?" Damon asked, moving his look of shock from the Pentoshi to a glare at Lucion, who looked sheepishly to the ground.

"Of course I know who you are," the man said it as if it was obvious. "Why should I not? I plan for us to be good friends for a long time to come, yes." It was then Damon had understood why he had taken him in and nursed him back to health. He saw an opportunity in Damon, a way to make a profit and if Damon proved to be troublesome, there were ways to get rid of him quietly, ways even his loyal shield could not guard him from. "Spice soldiers and cheese lords," his grandfather had called the merchant princes of the Free Cities. "They do nothing without expecting a greater return, remember that if you ever find yourself bargaining with one." Damon remembered his grandfather's words as they were seared into his memories. He also remembered other words spoken by him, right after he killed his son, "You will not bring shame upon House Lannister." Damon was now planning on doing a lot more than shaming House Lannister and that's why he had decided to bargain with the merchant as long as he was able to deliver him his vengeance.

"Might I know your name since you know mine?" he smiled.

"My name is Illyrio Mopatis and I welcome you to my humble home," Illyrio stroked one of the prongs of his yellow forked beard. The man's home was anything but humble though, with elaborate decorations gracing every inch of the walls and Myrish carpets covering the floors. "You must excuse, my prince. Before I was told that you had awaken I was off somewhere rather important. I have the honor to be a magister of this great city, and the prince has summoned us to session." He smiled, showing a mouth full of crooked yellow teeth. "Explore the manse and grounds as you like, once your wounds heal. We will have dinner soon I hope, where we will discuss the great things that we will do."

The Pentoshi had left as fast as he had come. That had been two days ago and he had not seen the Magister since and whenever he asked after him, the servants just said that he was off on business. Today was different though, a girl had come saying that he was to attend dinner with Illyrio and a boy had come carrying the clothes Damon wore now as he looked into the gardens below his window.

Beneath his window six cherry trees stood sentinel around a marble pool, their slender branches bare and brown. A naked boy stood on the water, poised to duel with a bravo's blade in hand. He was lithe and handsome, no older than Damon, with straight blond hair that brushed his shoulders. So lifelike did he seem that it took the prince a long moment to realize he was made of painted marble, though his sword shimmered like true steel. Across the pool stood a brick wall twelve feet high, with iron spikes along its top. Beyond that was the city. A sea of tiled rooftops crowded close around a bay. He saw square brick towers, the great red temple, a distant manse upon a hill. In the far distance, sunlight shimmered off deep water. Fishing boats were moving across the bay, their sails rippling in the wind, and he could see the masts of larger ships poking up along the shore.

Damon could not smell the tangy scent of the sea as strongly as he had been able to once he had awoken from his nightmare. He had decided that it was a nightmare, it wasn't anything else. It felt real but that was just the fever he had playing tricks on him. Besides, the words the red-masked woman used meant nothing to him. Who was the Harpy or the Dragon? What was meant by her saying "remember the false stag"? None of that had any meaning to him so he pushed all thought of it aside and focused on what was really important, the dinner he had with Illyrio.

The cheesemonger would no doubt want gold, it was one of the few things that made these men listen to you. Damon would give him half of the gold in Casterly Rock if he had to and a lordship if he really wanted one. If this man's endeavour succeeded, Damon would have revenge on his mad brother. Besides, he could punish the Magister then if he ever tried to reach too far. Damon knew from personal experience how big of a fall that that would be and he was sure that Illyrio wouldn't find a magister that wanted to help him declare war on the Seven Kingdoms. The only thing that kept Illyrio from putting Damon into a box and sending him to Joffrey was his claim on the Iron Throne. That must be the reason he saved him in the first place.

Damon turned away from the window and back into his room. When Damon had come here all of his belongnings had been taken from him because they were too bloody and dirty except for one thing which Lucion had saved for him. He walked over to the round table and picked up the golden stag's head pin, he caressed the antlers which framed a picture of battling does.

"To remind you of who you are, Damon," Lucion said when he handed it to him. "A Baratheon."

For so long Damon had wanted to be a Lannister, he wanted green eyes and golden hair and he wanted to be known as son of the Rock. Now Damon just wanted to tell his younger self to stop being a fool and embrace his name, to own his looks and his heritage. He regretted that it took his father's death and his exile for him to finally understand that he was a Baratheon and he shouldn't want to be anything else. _Ours is the fury,_ those were his words. Tywin and Joffrey would one day see his fury. Damon pinned the stag onto his breast just as a knock came to the door.

He told the person to enter and a young girl with blue eyes and fair hair walked in. She was the one who told Damon he was eating dinner with Illyrio tonight. She had come in as soon as Lucion had left which made Damon feel like she had been waiting outside the door for a while because Lucion had arrived at his chambers as soon as the sun had risen.

"My prince," she had said, "your bath awaits. Magister Illyrio would like you to dine with him this night."

Her language surprised Damon, she spoke the Common Tongue. Besides Lucion, Damon had only heard the bastard Pentoshi dialect of Valyrian from those in Illyrio's manse.

"Do I dream, or do you speak the Common Tongue?" he asked her, his eyebrow raised.

"Yes, my prince. I was bought to please you." Damon's face fell then, Illyrio had bought this girl for him, it disgusted Damon. Like all Westerosi, Damon was firmly against slavery and it was a shame really, if it was her choice then he might have enjoyed her. She was blue-eyed and fair, young and willowy.

"I will not need your services," Damon said in a brusque manner. The girl didn't seem too disappointed with his answer, although there was something else. Was it fear?

"If my prince would prefer a boy, I can have one waiting in his bed."

 _His Grace would want a doe eyed girl from the Westerlands._ "I've no interest in boys," Damon scowled at her. He spoke too harshly and the girl looked timidly to the ground.

After an extended period of silence the girl spoke once more, "Magister Illyrio said that I am to scrub your back. My name is Serenei if it please, my prince."

The girl had bathed him and when Damon was dry, she made to leave but not before turning around and asking something of him. "I would beg that you tell Magister Illyrio that I shared your bed with you, my prince. Otherwise he'll punish me."

Damon put his hand over his heart and said, "You have my solemn vow."

The Baratheon Prince put his hand on the same place as before but this time he was fiddling with his pin as he was led by Serenei through Illyrio's manse. Illyrio was reclining on a padded couch, gobbling hot peppers and pearl onions from a wooden bowl. His brow was dotted with beads of sweat, his pig's eyes shining above his fat cheeks. Jewels danced when he moved his hands; onyx and opal, tiger's eye and tourmaline, ruby, amethyst, sapphire, emerald, jet and jade, a black diamond, and a green pearl. _He wears more gold than most houses in Westeros can boast,_ Damon mused.

"Come sit, my princely friend." Illyrio waved him closer.

Damon walked to the nearest chair. It was too big for him, a cushioned throne intended to accommodate the magister's massive buttocks, with thick sturdy legs to bear his weight. His uncle Tyrion had lived all his life in a world that was too big for him, Damon wondered if he felt a little of what his uncle went through now.

"Did you enjoy the girl I sent you?" Illyrio asked.

"She was delightful," Damon smiled, "she was truly trained well." The cheeselord had smiled and thrown a handful of peppers into his mouth.

"I would hope so. She was trained in Lys, where they make an art of love. I bought her especially for you." Damon was sure that the girl had pleasured most men who had travelled through these walls but he would not insult his host. He called for a drink.

"I would like to move onto other matters, Magister."

"As you wish. Let us eat." Illyrio clapped his hands together, and serving men came running.

They began with a broth of crab and monkfish, and cold egg lime soup as well. Then came quails in honey, a saddle of lamb, goose livers drowned in wine, buttered parsnips, and suckling pig. The sight of it all made Damon feel queasy, but he forced himself to try a spoon of soup for the sake of politeness, and once he had tasted it he was lost. The cooks might be old and fat, but they knew their business. He had never eaten so well, even at court.

As he was sucking the meat off the bones of his quail, he asked Illyrio about the business that kept him busy. The fat man shrugged. "There are troubles with the trade to and from King's Landing, the ships are being stopped at Dragonstone and few are allowed to leave." The suckling pig was carved. Illyrio reached for a piece of the crackling, dipped it in a plum sauce, and ate it with his fingers.

"What is my uncle Stannis doing?" Damon speared a goose liver on the point of his knife. _If this is what the life of a traitor is like, I would have committed treason years ago._

"No one knows," Illyrio said, "but with trade being halted there it is effecting our business elsewhere. You see, the world is one great web and a man dare not touch a single strand lest all the others tremble. More wine?"

Illyrio popped a pepper into his mouth. "No, something better."

He clapped his hands together.

At the sound a serving man entered with a covered dish. He placed it in front of Damon, and Illyrio leaned across the table to remove the lid.

"Mushrooms," the magister announced, as the smell wafted up. "Kissed with garlic and bathed in butter. I am told the taste is exquisite. Have one, my friend. Have two."

Damon had a fat black mushroom halfway to his mouth, but something in Illyrio's voice made him stop abruptly. "After you, my lord."

He pushed the dish toward his host.

"No, no." Magister Illyrio pushed the mushrooms back. For a heartbeat it seemed as if a mischievous boy was peering out from inside the cheese-monger's bloated flesh. "After you. I insist. Cook made them specially for you."

"Did she indeed?" He remembered the cook from one of his walks through the manse, she had batted his hand away with a wooden spoon when he tried to taste a soup before it was ready as if he was a disobedient child. "That was kind of her, but . . . no." Damon eased the mushroom back into the lake of butter from which it had emerged.

"You are too suspicious." Illyrio smiled through his forked yellow beard. _Oiled every morning to make it gleam like Lannister gold,_ Damon suspected. "Are you craven? I had not heard that of you, I had heard the Black Prince was fearless."

"Fear is good, fear is healthy, without fear we would all charge blindly into the abyss."

"And what do you have to charge blindly into?" Mopatis reached for his wine cup.

"I have . . . a war to charge into," Damon said with uncertainty. Was that really all he had left? Was he now only fuelled by vengeance and a lust for war. His father had been the same at around this age, Lyanna Stark had been kidnapped by Rhaegar Targaryen and he declared war on the greatest nation since the Valyrian Freehold. The difference between him and his father had been he had a woman to fight for, Damon only had vengeance. He had told himself he would fight for Myrcella but that was a lie, he loved his sister but the war he planned to wage wasn't to save her, it was to kill Joffrey and to revenge himself upon Tywin. _He who slays his own kin is cursed by the gods,_ Damon heard the Septons say. _Then I shall suffer the consequences, let the gods curse me if they dare._ In truth, Damon was more fearful of becoming his father than being named a kinslayer.

"You have nothing else to do but war?" questioned Magister Illyrio.

"War and vengeance is enough to fuel any man," Damon lectured him.

"What happens when your war is won and you vengeance is sated? What happens when you are King of Seven Kingdoms and are ruling an entire continent?" He plucked a mushroom from the butter, and chewed it lustily. "Delicious."

"The mushrooms are not poisoned." Damon was irritated.

"No. Why should I wish you ill?" Magister Illyrio ate another. "We must show a little trust, you and I. You will play a big part in our plan. Come, eat." He clapped his hands again.

"Our plan?" Damon doubted that that was a slip of the tongue. Illyrio was too smart for that, Damon surmised. Everything that has been said was undoubtedly exactly what he wanted. "Who else is involved in this?" He wasn't sure if he wanted to know the answer to that question. _As long as it leads me to my revenge._

Illyrio smiled, revealing his yellowed crooked teeth. "I believe you are familiar with my friend. He is called the Spider in your Westerosi courts."

"Lord Varys?" he asked, mouth agape.

The cheeselord was amused by Damon's reaction and he laughed heartily. "You should see your face, my prince. How do you think I found you? It was Varys' little mice that led me to a black haired prince who was now threatening merchants on behalf of a Summer Islander thug."

Damon should have known that even in Essos he could not escape the Spider's spies. Lord Varys had probably never lost him. "So what are your plans with the Spider? And what part do I have to play?"

Illyrio's fat cheeks suddenly became still as his face became a stone mask. "Well that, my prince, is entirely up to you. Which is more important to you, your vengeance or the Iron Throne? What ever you say, I promise you will leave here alive and well. You have nothing to fear."

Damon knew that wasn't true. If his answer wasn't to the fat man's liking, Illyrio could easily have him killed with no fear of retribution. Nobody even knew if he was alive or dead. "My vengeance is more important to me, my lord. It is the only thing I care about, it is the one thing that is on my mind. Every single waking moment, I think about how I could kill my brother, about how I can make him scream and pay him back for what he has done to me. If you can deliver that to me then I will play whatever role you need me to in your plan. On the condition that when the time comes, I am the one to kill Joffrey."

Illyrio's mouth twisted into a cruel grin. "That I am happy to hear, my prince. Of course, you will be the one to kill Joffrey. I will not stand in the way of a man and his revenge. All I need from you is to fetch someone and then stand beside her as she sails to Westeros."

"And who will I be fetching, may I ask?" Damon had an inkling of who the magister was alluding to but he needed to hear it before he fully believed it.

"Why, that would be Daenerys Targaryen, of course," Illyrio said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "She is the rightful heir to the Iron Throne and with the son of Robert Baratheon at her side, Westeros will welcome their queen back to her home. Your father was meant to be a warrior not a king. The Targaryens are born rulers and Westeros won't know peace until they are restored as the rulers of the Seven Kingdoms."

Damon smirked, "I suppose you're not just doing all of this out of the goodness of your heart. What do you want from her?"

Illyrio feigned hurt, "I am just trying to set things right, no more no less. If Queen Daenerys wishes to reward me, that is her right." Damon knew that Illyrio was expecting to be paid a king's ransom three times over if Daenerys Targaryen succeeded.

"And what of Viserys? If I know my history, and I do, all male Targaryens come before females."

"Viserys is dead by Khal Drogo, who is dead also from an infected wound." The Targaryens really had no luck. _Father never had to even act against the Targaryens,_ Damon mused _, they were being killed by their own allies._

"And is her child dead as well?" Damon quipped, chuckling at his joke.

Illyrio laughed as well, "As a matter of fact, he is." _Shit_ , Damon thought. He felt horrible for making that joke now. "Daenerys Targaryen is on the other side of the world with no way of finding her way back to Westeros. Which is why you need to go find her and bring her back to me? Her and her three dragons?"

He couldn't tell whether the magister was being serious or not. "Dragons?" Damon guffawed. "Do you really expect me to believe she has one dragon, nevermind three?" The face of the cheeselord was deadly serious, he did not seem to understand the hilarity of the situation. "Dragons are extinct."

"They were extinct until Daenerys Targaryen hatched three dragon eggs on Khal Drogo's funeral pyre, now they are no longer legends. Dragons are alive once more and they are in Qarth with their mother," Illyrio replied. "Besides, I do not need you to believe whether my informants from Qarth speak the truth about dragons or not, what matters is that Daenerys is there and she needs to be brought here to Pentos where we can plan for her return to the Seven Kingdoms when they are weakest. Through her, you will be able to gain the vengeance that you desire more than anything else."

Damon decided to leave the nonsense of dragons behind and move on. "Am I going to be alone travelling to Qarth?"

Illyrio had shed his stone mask like a snake shed its skin, he laughed once more while stroking his beard. "No, of course not, you will not be alone. You will be travelling with three of my best ships and you can bring your sworn shield as well. There is also another man that I would like you to meet who will be travelling with you."

He barked at one of his servants to fetch the "old knight". The magister was almost giddy with excitement as he wolfed down more food. Damon had lost his appetite with all of the revelations that had come to light. Apparently dragons were alive again and he was now a Targaryen loyalist. _How disappointed my father must be,_ Damon mused. If the Demon of the Trident was alive today, he would surely try to kill Damon for his treachery. As long as the Targaryen gave him his vengeance, nothing else mattered. He would kill Joffrey, punish Tywin and he would rescue his siblings if possible. He couldn't fail them, he needed them to be safe.

As the servant returned, following behind him was an old man who Damon instantly knew. He had longer hair and a full beard but that didn't stop Damon from recognising Barristan the Bold. The single greatest swordsman that Westeros had known in the past decade and once upon a time he had been Damon's teacher.

Damon stood up from his cushioned throne, he tilted his head. He was not sure if he could believe his eyes. Maybe this was all an elaborate dream and he was still being buried by Grelyo and the Volantene. He moved closer to the aged knight.

Barristan smiled, "It is good to see you again, my prince."

He jumped forward and caught his former teacher in a hug. Damon held on tight as Barristan returned the hug and wrapped his arms around him. For the first time in years he had felt safe. Now that Ser Barristan was here, Damon felt confident that he wouln't be hurt. The old knight had always had a soft spot for him ever since he was a mischievous child running away from wet nurse.

When he finally left the hug he looked at Barristan again as if to make sure he had not escaped. The man's blue eyes who always seemed to have a hidden sadness behind them were now watering as he held Damon in his arms. They were not sad now.

"How?" Damon asked, it was all he was able to get out of his mouth.

The smile faded and Barristan took a deep breath. "Your brother released me from my vows. After Lord Stark was taken captive and . . . and you were chased from the city," he looked to the floor sheepishly, "they said I was too old to protect anyone." _Too old,_ Damon mused. Barristan could cut through half a dozen men faster than a knife slices butter. It was foolish on Joffrey's part to release him, Barristan was beloved by every commoner and respected by every lord.

"They offered me a keep, the one you were meant to receive, and after I refused, Joffrey sent men after me. I didn't have my sword with me but I had a dagger and that was all I needed. I killed two and fled the keep." Damon grinned at him and Barristan sheepishly smiled back.

He shook his head moved on. "While I knew my kin at Harvest Hall would welcome me back home, I did not want to bring the king's ire down upon them. Once I had left the city, I sold my horse and wore a commoner's clothes, nobody gave me second glance. I returned to the city in the stream of smallfolk that were fleeing the war. I had grown a beard so nobody noticed me and I was there in the crowd when Eddard was executed before the Great Sept of Baelor. After his execution, I went to a sept to pray for his soul and thank the gods that I had been dismissed. It was all I could do." Barristan looked to the ground again. _He feels he has failed_ , Damon realised. He brought a reassuring hand to his shoulder and the old man held it tight. This was the weakest Damon had ever seen him. He may have been the oldest man at court but he was the only one that was made of true steel.

"Your father was a good warrior, Damon, but he was a poor king. I looked back over my years of service in his Kingsguard and I decided that I must find my true liege so I can die in their service."

Damon sighed, "And that true liege is Daenerys Targaryen?"

Barristan smiled sadly, "Yes, my prince. I was a Targaryen's shield before the Baratheon's. I swore my oath to their house and I should never have broken it."

"Well it's a good thing that she is to be my queen as well," Damon smiled, it was good to have someone from his old life back with him. Barristan was the one man who had never tried to manipulate him and cared about his wellbeing without any ulterior motive.

Illyrio clapped his hands, "This is a truly heart warming moment." He struggled to get up out of his chair, only with the help of his servant was he finally able to stand up. He grabbed the plate of mushrooms and lumbered over to the pair of Westerosi knights. He offered some to Barristan who politely declined. "More for me," he laughed, stroking one of his prongs. Somehow the more he stroked it the shinier and oilier it became. It seemed to radiate a light all by itself.

"Now that we are all friends, I have another gift for you, my prince," Illyrio nodded to one of the servants.

Damon's interest was piqued, "A gift?" The magister had given him so much, what else was there?

The doors behind Damon opened, three people came in, the one in the centre was being dragged by the other two. The one on the left was a plump member of Illyrio's guards that had littered the magister's manse. The one on the right was Lucion, his sworn shield was in a crimson studded leather doublet with a golden cloak hanging from his shoulders. The man in the middle made Damon's blood boil. Samarro was being dragged in.

The once proud Summer Islander had been reduced to a bloody mess. His left eye was swollen shut, his bottom lip was busted open, he had a bruised jaw and he had a large cut going across his forehead. The blood that poured from it covered the left side of his face in blood. The once smooth ebony skin of the mob boss was now ruined. He wore some rags that covered little of his flesh and Damon could see on his dark skin that he was covered in bruises and cuts.

Lucion and the guard dropped the broken man Damon's feet. Samarro crawled closer to Damon until he was clutching his leg, the mob boss used Damon's limb to get onto his knees, slowly making his way up, bloodying the blue silken tunic that Illyrio had given him. Samarro grabbed onto Damon's wrist and he looked up at the man who he was leaning. Damon maintained a stony silence as the Summer Islander's eyes opened wide in both fear and recognition. He screamed as much as he could and pushed off of Damon. He tried to crawl towards the open door and the guards moved to block his path but Illyrio called them off.

Damon stalked over to his former employer and grabbed a fistful of hair, lifting Samarro onto his knees. He grabbed the Summer Islander's throat with the other hand to keep him steady as he prepared to punch him. Damon's fist was lighting and the collision sounded like thunder, Samarro sprawled onto the ground as he began to spit teeth and blood onto Illyrio's polished floor. Damon ran up to the man who was on all fours and punt kicked him in the head, causing him to roll across the floor.

Samarro landed on his back a few feet from Damon and the Baratheon prince jumped onto Samarro. Damon turned into a living tempest, his fists flew into Samarro's face and each time they opened a brand new cut, each on larger than the last. Samarro's face slowly morphed into Joffrey's and Damon was all of a sudden back in Winterfell. _Who's the bastard now? Who's the bastard now? Who's the bastard now? Who's the bastard now? Who's the bastard now?_

Damon had to be dragged off of Samarro's body by Lucion, Barristan and two other plump guards. Samarro's face was destroyed, it was a mix of blood, brains, bone and flesh. An eye had popped out of the socket and was now a full foot away from Samarro's wreck of a face. Damon pushed the men off of him and stalked back to Illyrio. He tasted one of the mushrooms. _Had anything ever tasted so sweet?_


	21. ACOK Sansa I

"The longer you keep him waiting, the worse it will go for you," Sandor Clegane warned her.

Sansa tried to hurry, but her fingers fumbled at buttons and knots. The Hound was always rough-tongued, but something in the way he had looked at her filled her with dread. Had Joffrey found out about her meetings with Ser Dontos? _Please no_ , she thought as she brushed out her hair. Ser Dontos was her only hope. _I have to look pretty, Joff likes me to look pretty, he's always liked me in this gown, this color._ She smoothed the cloth down. The fabric was tight across her chest.

When she emerged, Sansa walked on the Hound's left, away from the side of his scarred face. "Tell me what I've done."

"Not you. Your kingly brother."

"Robb's a traitor." Sansa knew the words by rote. "I had no part in whatever he did." _Gods be good, don't let it be the Kingslayer. If Robb had harmed Jaime Lannister, it would mean her life_. She thought of Ser Ilyn, and how those terrible pale eyes staring pitilessly out of that gaunt pockmarked face.

The Hound snorted. "They trained you well, little bird." He conducted her to the lower bailey, where a crowd had gathered around the archery butts. Men moved aside to let them through. She could hear Lord Gyles coughing. Loitering stablehands eyed her insolently, but Ser Horas Redwyne averted his gaze as she passed, and his brother Hobber pretended not to see her. A yellow cat was dying on the ground, mewling piteously, a crossbow quarrel through its ribs. Sansa stepped around it, feeling ill.

Ser Dontos approached on his broomstick horse; since he'd been too drunk to mount his destrier at the tourney, the king had decreed that henceforth he must always go horsed. "Be brave," he whispered, squeezing her arm.

Joffrey stood in the center of the throng, winding an ornate crossbow. Ser Boros and Ser Meryn were with him. The sight of them was enough to tie her insides in knots.

"Your Grace." She fell to her knees.

"Kneeling won't save you now," the king said. "Stand up. You're here to answer for your brother's latest treasons."

"Your Grace, whatever my traitor brother has done, I had no part. You know that, I beg you, please—"

"Get her up!"

The Hound pulled her to her feet, not ungently.

"Ser Lancel," Joff said, "tell her of this outrage."

Sansa had always thought Lancel Lannister comely and well spoken, but there was neither pity nor kindness in the look he gave her. "Using some vile sorcery, your brother fell upon Ser Stafford Lannister with an army of wargs, not three days ride from Lannisport. Thousands of good men were butchered as they slept, without the chance to lift a defence. After the slaughter, the northmen feasted on the flesh of the slain."

Horror coiled cold hands around Sansa's throat.

"You have nothing to say?" asked Joffrey.

"Your Grace, the poor child is shocked witless," murmured Ser Dontos.

"Silence, fool." Joffrey lifted his crossbow and pointed it at her face. "You Starks are as unnatural as those wolves of yours. I've not forgotten that we have two of your wolves in the kennels."

Fear gripped Sansa and she could feel its cold hands coiling up her back. "Your Grace, Lady and Nymeria have never hurt anyone," Sansa pleaded, Nymeria was all she had left of her sister. "They have done nothing wrong."

"They're wrong by nature," Joff said, "I should kill you like I killed your father. I wish I'd done it myself. I killed a man last night who was bigger than your father. They came to the gate shouting my name and calling for bread like I was some baker, but I taught them better. I shot the loudest one right through the throat."

"And he died?" With the ugly iron head of the quarrel staring her in the face, it was hard to think what else to say.

"Of course he died, he had my quarrel in his throat. There was a woman throwing rocks, I got her as well, but only in the arm." Frowning, he lowered the crossbow. "I'd shoot you too, but if I do Mother says they'd kill my uncle Jaime. Instead you'll just be punished and we'll send word to your brother about what will happen to you if he doesn't yield. Dog, hit her."

"Let me beat her!" Ser Dontos shoved forward, tin armor clattering. He was armed with a "morningstar" whose head was a melon. _My Florian_. She could have kissed him, blotchy skin and broken veins and all. He trotted his broomstick around her, shouting "Traitor, traitor" and whacking her over the head with the melon. Sansa covered herself with her hands, staggering every time the fruit hit her, her hair sticky by the second blow. People were laughing. The melon flew to pieces. _Laugh_ , _Joffrey_ , she prayed as the juice ran down her face and the front of her blue silk gown. _Laugh and be satisfied._

Joffrey did not so much as snigger. "Boros. Meryn."

Ser Meryn Trant seized Dontos by the arm and flung him brusquely away. The red-faced fool went sprawling, broomstick, melon, and all. Ser Boros seized Sansa.

"Leave her face," Joffrey commanded. "I like her pretty."

Boros slammed a fist into Sansa's belly, driving the air out of her. When she doubled over, the knight grabbed her hair and drew his sword, and for one hideous instant she was certain he meant to open her throat. As he laid the flat of the blade across her thighs, she thought her might break from the force of the blow. Sansa screamed. Tears welled in her eyes. It will be over soon. She soon lost count of the blows.

"Enough," she heard the Hound rasp.

"No it isn't," the king replied. "Boros, make her naked."

Boros shoved a meaty hand down the front of Sansa's bodice and gave a hard yank. The silk came tearing away, baring her to the waist. Sansa covered her breasts with her hands. She could hear sniggers, far off and cruel. "Beat her bloody," Joffrey said, "we'll see how her brother fancies—"

"What is the meaning of this?"

The Imp's voice cracked like a whip, and suddenly Sansa was free. She stumbled to her knees, arms crossed over her chest, her breath ragged. "Is this your notion of chivalry, Ser Boros?" Tyrion Lannister demanded angrily. His pet sellsword stood with him, and one of his wildlings, the one with the burned eye. "What sort of knight beats helpless maids?"

"The sort who serves his king, Imp." Ser Boros raised his sword, and Ser Meryn stepped up beside him, his blade scraping clear of its scabbard.

"Careful with those," warned the dwarf's sellsword. "You don't want to get blood all over those pretty white cloaks.

"Someone give something to cover herself with," the Imp said. Sandor Clegane unfastened his cloak and tossed it at her. Sansa clutched it against her chest, fists bunched hard in the white wool. The coarse weave was scratchy against her skin, but no velvet had ever felt so fine.

"This girl's to be your queen," the Imp told Joffrey. "Have you no regard for her honor?"

"I'm punishing her."

"For what crime? She did not fight her brother's battle."

"She has the blood of a wolf."

"And you have the wits of a goose."

"Tyrion!"

Sansa turned round and saw a large group of men marching into the throne room. Many were still wearing riding leathers and armour. Dirt clung to their tunics. The man at the head of the party was different. He was dressed in a splendid red velvet tunic with a lions broach holding his crimson cloak around his shoulders. He was balding but enough of his golden hair was there to show he was a Lannister.

"Uncle?" the dwarf's mismatched eyes opened in shock. Sansa realised who the man was now. He was Kevan Lannister, brother of Tywin Lannister and uncle to the queen.

"That is no way to speak to your king." Tyrion looked to the floor sheepishly. "Your Grace," he bowed deeply to Joffrey.

Joffrey smirked, "Lord Kevan, we heard that you were with my grandfather at Harrenhal. Too tired of the fighting, are you?" Joffrey laughed loudly. "I suppose younger men are better suited to fight Robb Stark. He is running circles around you old men and all you do is sit in Harrenhal."

Lord Kevan's face remained impassive. "Your Grace, your grandfather is fighting your war the best way he sees fit. He has proven himself many times over during the many wars he has fought. He will win this one like all of the others. As for myself, my brother felt that I would be of better use here in the Capital as the traitor Renly Baratheon approaches."

"I don't know what much use you will be to me," Joffrey scoffed, "but at least you brought some able young men with you."

"Of course, Your Grace. We cannot remain young forever."

Joffrey was pleased with his answer. "We should meet later to discuss what to do with the new men that you brought me." Joffrey turned to her and raised his crossbow again. "Now, what am I going to do with you?"

Sansa looked down as her flood of tears was renewed. She clutched the Hound's cloak even tighter as Lord Kevan spoke up once more. "Your Grace, she is your betrothed and she should be afforded a certain modicum of respect." She looked up at him and wondered why he was defending her. _He just doesn't want to lose a hostage like Arya,_ Sansa surmised.

"Respect?" Joffrey scoffed incredulously. He dubiously looked his great-uncle up and down. "Her family are traitors! I'm being generous enough not throwing her into the black cells."

"She is just a girl, you idiot!" the Imp barked.

Joffrey balked at first but his face morphed into a furious scowl. "You can't talk to me that way. The king can do as he likes."

"Aerys Targaryen did as he liked. Has your mother ever told you what happened to him?"

"Tyrion!" Lord Kevan looked nearly as angry as Joffrey.

Ser Boros Blount harrumphed. "No man threatens His Grace in the presence of the Kingsguard."

Tyrion Lannister raised an eyebrow. "I am not threatening the king, ser, I am educating my nephew. Bronn, Timett, the next time Ser Boros opens his mouth, kill him." The dwarf smiled. "Now that was a threat, ser. See the difference?"

Ser Boros turned a dark shade of red. "The queen will hear of this!"

"No doubt she will. And why wait? Joffrey, shall we send for your mother? "

The king flushed.

"Nothing to say, Your Grace?" his uncle went on. "Good. Learn to use your more and your mouth less, or your reign will be shorter than I am. Meaningless brutality is no way to win your people's love . . . or your queen's."

"Enough!" Kevan Lannister's voice sliced through the arguments and everyone looked to him. "Ser Loren." A tall man stepped forward with a three lion heads emblazoned on his surcoat. "Take the Lady Sansa to the Tower of the Hand and guard her until I arrive." The man rounded on Sansa and she cringed away from him as he bent down, fear gripping her heart.

"My lady," he offered his hand with a smile.

She did not know what to do and just sat there for a second, gawping at him. Sansa tentatively took his and she rose, careful not to let the Hound's cloak fall. He escorted her out of the throne room at the pace she went. No one looked at them, they were all engrossed by Kevan Lannister. "Clegane, take the king to his rooms, he is tired. Tyrion, you will come with me."

"I am not tired!" Joffrey screeched. That was the last thing she heard before she rounded the corner.

When Sansa came to the entrance of the Tower of the Hand, she begun to cry. She had not set foot inside that place since the day her father fell from grace. It made her feel faint to climb those steps again but Ser Loren had both hands on her, forcing her to stay upright.

Some serving girls took charge of her, mouthing meaningless comforts to stop her shaking. One stripped off the ruins of her gown and smallclothes, and another bathed her and washed the sticky juice from her face and her hair. As they scrubbed her down with soap and sluiced warm water over her head, all she could see were the faces from the bailey. Knights are sworn to defend the weak, protect women, and fight for the right, but none of them did a thing. Only Ser Dontos had tried to help, and he was no longer a knight, no more than the Imp was, nor the Hound . . . the Hound hated knights . . . _I hate them too_ , Sansa thought. _They are no true knights, not one of them._ Sansa had thought that Damon was the one who poisoned everyone's minds when she first came hear but she saw clearly now that they were never pure to begin with.

After she was clean, plump ginger-headed Maester Frenken came to see her. He bid her lie facedown on the mattress while he spread a salve across the angry red welts that covered the backs of her legs. Afterward he mixed her a draught of dreamwine, with some honey so it might go down easier. "Sleep a bit, child. When you wake, all this will seem a bad dream."

 _No it won't, you stupid man,_ Sansa thought, but she drank the drearnwine anyway, and slept.

It was dark when she woke again, not quite knowing where she was, the room both strange and strangely familiar. As she rose, a stab of pain went through her legs and brought it all back. Tears filled her eyes. Someone had laid out a robe for her beside the bed. Sansa slipped it on and opened the door. Outside stood Ser Loren who was still wearing the same surcoat and had his hand on the pommel of his sword.

"My lady," he smiled. "I trust you are feeling better."

She didn't trust his act but Sansa forced herself to smile sweetly back at him. "Much better. Thank you, ser."

Sansa took a step to move past him but he nimbly hopped in her way. "Where do you think you are going?"

"The godswood." She had to find Ser Dontos, beg him to take her home now before it was too late.

"Ser Kevan said you are not allowed to leave," the knight said. "If you pray here, the gods will surely hear."

Meekly, Sansa dropped her eyes and retreated back inside. She realized suddenly why this place seemed so familiar. _They've put me in Arya's old bedchamber, from when Father was the Hand of the King_. All her things are gone and the furnishings have been moved around, but it's the same . . .

A short time later, a serving girl brought a platter of cheese and bread and olives, with a flagon of cold water. "Take it away," Sansa commanded, but the girl left the food on a table. She was thirsty, she realized. Every step sent knives through her thighs, but she made herself cross the room. She drank two cups of water, and was nibbling on an olive when the knock came.

Anxiously, she turned toward the door, smoothed down the folds of her robe. "Yes?"

The door opened, and Tyrion Lannister stepped inside. "My lady. I trust I am not disturbing you?"

"You can come and go when you please, my lord. I am your prisoner."

"You are my honoured guest, one who I wish to protect." If Sansa was still the stupid girl from Winterfell then she might have believed him, he sounded so earnest. He was wearing the chain of Hand of the King, a necklace of linked golden hands. Her father had worn and then the Imp. "I thought we might talk."

"As my lord commands." Sansa stared at the portly man. He wasn't handsome like most of the Lannister's seemed to be, he had grown a beard that hid a massive jaw.

"The food and garments are to your satisfaction?" he asked. "If there is anything else you need, you have only to ask. I am determined that your stay in King's Landing be as satisfying as anyone could hope for, from this point on."

"You are most kind. I thank you for taking care of me after . . . this morning."

"You have a right to know why Joffrey was so wroth. Six nights gone, your brother fell upon my cousin Stafford, encamped with his host at a village called Oxcross not three days ride from Casterly Rock. Your brother and his northerners won a crushing victory. We received word only this morning. I didn't even know until after that business in the throne room.

 _Robb will kill you all_ , she thought, exulting. "It's . . . terrible, my lord. My brother is a vile traitor."

"Well, he's no young pup, he's made that clear enough."

"Ser Lancel said Robb led an army of wargs . . . "

The fat man gave an amused chuckle. "My son is prone to believing in every rumour that comes to the walls. He would not know what a warg was if it was in front of him. Your brother had his direwolf with him, but I suspect that's as far as it went. The northmen crept into my uncle's camp and cut his horse lines, and Lord Stark sent his wolf among them. Even war-trained destriers went mad. Knights were trampled to death in their pavilions, and the rabble woke in terror and fled, casting aside their weapons to run the faster. Ser Stafford was slain as he chased after a horse. Lord Rickard Karstark drove a lance through his chest. Ser Rubert Brax is also dead, along with Ser Lymond Vikary, Lord Crakehall, and Lord Jast. Half a hundred more have been taken captive, including Jast's sons and my . . . my son Martyn. Those who survived are spreading wild tales and swearing that the old gods of the north march with your brother."

"Then . . . there was no sorcery?"

The Lannister snorted derisively. "Just because he had his wolf does not mean it was sorcery. It makes him more of a savage than a wizard. They only blame it on magic to hide my cousin Stafford's incompetence. He thought he was safe, being so close to the Rock. Ser Forley Prester guarded the Golden Tooth with four thousand men and it would have been futile for the Stark boy to try and take it. My dim cousin failed to post sentries and watchmen. His force of green boys, the stews of Lannisport were not even halfway through their training when your brother's horde fell upon them. We don't even know how he reached Stafford's forces. Ser Forley swore that they did not pass." He rubbed his temples. "Robb Stark no longer my headache though. I have Renly and Joffrey to deal with. Tell the truth, what do you think of our king?"

"I love him with all my heart," Sansa said at once.

Ser Kevan looked at her with sympathetic eyes, "Of course you do, child." It didn't sound like he believed her.

"My love for His Grace is greater than it has ever been," Sansa assured him.

He smiled wanly. "If you are going to lie child, try to make it sound more believable."

Sansa could feel the worry rise inside her. "I am not lying, my lord. I swear!" She was on the cusp of crying. "I live King Joffrey more than life itself. I have traitor's blood and he is so generous to allow me to stay here." Tears flowed freely now and she couldn't stop them.

He walked over to her and placed a hand on her shoulder. "Hush, child. Do not cry, this is not something worth shedding tears over." Sansa bit back the tears eventually just sniffling. Her clean robe was now damp with tears. "If it gives you any solace, child, there is a chance you may not even be wed to Joffrey. Betrothals are broken every day."

She knew she ought to say something, but the words caught in her throat.

"Is this what you want? An end to your betrothal?"

"I . . . " Sansa did not know what to say. _Is it a trick? Will he punish me if I tell the truth?_ She stared at the knight's receding hairline, his beard which his his massive jaw. He was a Lannister and Sansa could not trust him. "I only want to be loyal."

"Loyal," Kevan Lannister mused, "and far from King's Landing. I can scarce blame you for that. You have had a harder time than most." He smiled. "They tell me you visit the godswood every day. What do you pray for, child?"

 _I pray for Robb's victory and Joffrey's death . . . and for home. For Winterfell._ "I pray for an end to the fighting."

"We'll have that soon enough. There will be another battle, between your brother Robb and my lord brother, and that will settle the issue."

 _Robb will beat him,_ Sansa thought. _He beat your cousin and your nephew Jaime, he'll beat your brother too._

It was as if her face were an open book, so easily did the knight read her thoughts. "Do not take Oxcross too much to heart, my lady," he told her, not unkindly. "One battle does not make a war and my brother is Stafford's better in every way. The next time that you visit the godswood, pray for your brother to bend the knee, that is what is best for everybody." He stepped away from her and said, "You shall rest here tonight. Ser Loren will stand guard for you, perhaps another one or two men—"

"No," Sansa blurted out, aghast. If she was locked in the Tower of the Hand, guarded by the dwarf's men, how would Ser Dontos ever spirit her away to freedom?

"I'm sorry, my lady, but you need guards at your door and Ser Loren is a fine knight to watch over you."

"Please no, my lord, I would sooner return to my own bed." A lie came to her suddenly, but it seemed so right that she blurted it out at once. "This tower was where my father's men were slain. Their ghosts would give me terrible dreams, and I would see their blood wherever I looked."

Kevan Lannister studied her face. "I am no stranger to nightmares, child. But I am sorry, I'm going to have to insist that you stay here. This is the best place that I can keep an eye on you, where I can keep you safe. Joffrey has proven that he does not care for your well-being so I must take you out of his way. I cannot risk your life to Joffrey's mood swings."

The knight turned around towards the door and left Sansa to be all alone again.


	22. ACOK Renly II

_Author's Note:The previous chapter is the new chapter. I accidentaly uploaded Renly II when I should have uploaded Sansa I. But at least you got two new chapters._

* * *

Renly's green cloak billowed in the wind as he looked at the tall trees of the Kingswood. Bitter memories were rising in Renly's mind the longer he stood there, like a sentinel of the forest. The last time Renly had rode through the Kingswood was when he was fleeing King's Landing after Robert had died. Renly had taken the Roseroad all the way to Highgarden, leaving the capital behind him as well as many good men. He didn't regret his decision of fleeing when he had the chance, if he was to gather the support needed for his bid for the throne, he had to leave King's Landing. Renly had hoped that Eddard Stark would have supported him and taken his advice of taking Cersei's children into custody but he had refused the notion. When Renly had asked him, if Stark would support him as king, he had said something he did not expect.

"Robert's true heir is Damon Baratheon," he had told him with steel in his voice. "I will see him on the Iron Throne in memory of Robert and if you loved your brother, you would support me in this." Renly had been sorely tempted to support him because Renly had loved his eldest brother with all of his heart but he had set a path for himself and no one could have moved him from it.

It was in Highgarden when Renly had heard all that had happened in King's Landing after he had left. Lord Stark had been arrested and executed on the charges of high treason and plotting to usurp the Iron Throne from its rightful ruler, Joffrey Baratheon. Damon, who had apparently colluded with Stark was announced a traitor with the same charges but he had escaped before he could be taken into custody. That was the last anyone had heard of his nephew and Renly hoped that Damon had escaped from the clutches of Joffrey. Renly had always been quite fond of his nephew and he wished that Damon was standing by him now, not just because it would lend legitimacy to his cause but because he would like his help.

Damon and Renly had always maintained a friendly relationship when he was in the capital and Renly liked to think he was Damon's favourite uncle. They shared many things in common, they were both fashionable although Damon had always worn plainer tunics than Renly had, they were both handsome —which was a point of conflict as to who was more handsome— and they both enjoyed riding as well as dozens of other things. Renly had thought of Damon as like the little brother he had never gotten and he had felt slightly guilty when he had married Margaery.

 _In another life, Damon would be standing where I am now,_ Renly mused. Renly's wife was supposed to have been betrothed to Damon but when he had been declared a traitor and Renly had shown up at Highgarden asking for support, the Fat Flower couldn't have been quicker to break the betrothal even though it had never been made official.

When Renly was king, he would try to find Damon and he would invite his nephew back to Westeros and give him Casterly Rock and the Westerlands. If Damon bent the knee to Renly then there would be no one who would dispute his claim especially with Joffrey out of the way. Renly didn't care if he was killed or sent to the Night's Watch just as long as he lost his claim to the throne. A horse's hooves came riding up behind them from the camp, the rider dismounted and whispered something into Brienne's ear.

"The War Council has been convened, Your Grace," Brienne the Blue informed him. The lady knight had been diligent in her duties and she had spent more time guarding Renly's body than any other member of his Rainbow Guard, even Loras.

Renly sighed, he walked back into the Kingswood through the camp. He stopped and talked to nearly every man that they came across. patting them on the back and sharing a joke and a smile. His men loved him like they had loved Robert during his wars. Renly was going to be remembered as a good king by all the realm, by nobles and smallfolk alike. He would make sure of that. Throughout the camp, Brienne was always standing near him no matter what. Even when another was meant to be guarding him, Brienne was there. His blue shadow, was what the men called her now. Brienne seemed to like the name from what Renly could tell.

When Renly walked into the all the lords and knights stood up and bowed in deference to their king. "Rise, my lords," Renly commanded as he took his seat at the head of the table. Brienne positioned herself behind him and beside Loras. To Renly's right sat the mean-looking Randyll Tarly, Renly's best soldier and commander. The only person who had defeated Robert in the rebellion, Mace Tyrell claimed the victory but Tarly had defeated Robert before Mace had arrived. The red huntsman was sewn proudly on his green tunic.

To Renly's right was the stout Lord Mathis Rowan who was the one who Renly had favoured the most during their march. The men liked him almost as much as they liked Renly. Whereas Lord Randyll inspired fear in his men, Lord Mathis was the one that they would lay down their lives for.

"My lords, as we approach the blackwater rush, the question that comes to the fore of my mind, is how we will cross it," Renly began. He was not a great strategist like his brothers were but that was why he had dozens of lords in this tent with him. "Now we can assume that the Lannisters will tear down the bridge by the mudgate so how else will we cross it?"

Silence followed as some thought that the question was rhetorical. Ser Jon Fossoway was the first to speak, "Well the most obvious approach would be that we plunder the Kingswood for wood to build rafts so we can ferry across our men." There was some grunts of support of this plan.

Lord Randyll scoffed loudly, "And perhaps you would like to charge upon the gates of King's Landing without armour. That would let our men be killed just as efficiently. Delivering small portions of our men to die by our enemy's hand is truly a strong plan."

Ser Jon's face was as sour as a green apple. "And how would you suggest we cross the river, my lord?"

"I say that we should follow the river east until we reach the Rolling Ford and then cross once we reach the shallows," he suggested, earning nods from many lords present. "If the Lannisters wish to engage us there the battle will be hard but we would have the superior numbers."

The pavilion was already swaying towards Lord Ranyll's plan. The man was respected and feared by all of them. Ser Jon spoke up again, "But what of Lord Tywin, my lord? Do you expect him to wait in Harrenhal as we move one hundred thousand men and foodstuffs across the rush. You assume that King's Landing will be as lightly defended as it is now."

Lord Randyll bristled, he was not usually argued with. His words would usually make men bend to his will but Ser Jon must have been feeling brave. "Lord Tywin cannot leave Harrenhal and go to King's Landing without abandoning the Westerlands to Robb Stark's plundering and raiding. His vassals won't stand for their homes to be pillaged as they march away from them. Either the Old Lion will go west or stay where he is, he has no other option."

"And how do you know this?" Parmen Crane asked.

"Because you cannot fight a war if your home is being taken from you. If the Lannister's were razing the Reach or besieging Storm's End, we would not be marching towards King's Landing, I can assure you." Lord Randyll's voice brook no argument. "The best plan is to march across the Rolling Ford and from there we can take King's Landing." That plan was heartily supported by nearly all in the pavilion, although Mathis Rowan remained quiet.

"Lord Rowan, do you have something to add?" Renly questioned.

The lord remained silent for a moment until he was ready to speak. "Lord Randyll makes some fine point but it's not the way I would do it," said Mathis in his usual gruff manner. "Crossing the ford is safer than ferrying soldiers across but it also takes us out of the way of King's Landing and although Lord Tywin is stuck in Harrenhal, that doesn't stop him from sending small portions of men at a time to reinforce King's Landing."

Renly nodded along as Lord Rowan spoke. "So if the ford is not an option, then what do you suggest?"

"I believe that we should build a pontoon bridge so we can move our men across in bulk while we can also build siege engines in the safety of the Kingswood." Lord Rowan's proposal was met with silence. "We have all the wood we need and the city could just sit and watch our army preparing to invade their home."

"You mean the King taking what is rightfully his," corrected Loras.

Lord Rowan looked at Loras as if he was an insolent child. "Of course, Lord Commander, but the effect is still the same. Let the people see the overwhelming odds and we may end up being given the city when we cross."

Parmen Crane scoffed, "And you expect the Imp to just sit on his hands as we crr

The rest of the war council was just spent ironing out the finer points of the plan which Renly contributed little to. It was Lord Randyll and Lord Mathis who were spearheading the planning. Renly was thankful that he had commanders like those two with him on this march, Renly had a head for politics and intrigue, not for tactical warfare. When the council was finished Renly rose from his seat and the lords rose with him. "My lords," he nodded. The king walked out of the tent with them all bowing while saying, "Your Grace" and "My king."

Renly trekked across camp towards his own pavilion with Loras and Brienne following behind him. The men all bowed in deference as he passed, all with jovial smiles on their faces from jokes that they shared with each other. Renly responded in kind, he even shared a cup of wine with two groups.

He turned to face Brienne at the threshold of his pavilion. "You're dismissed for the night, Brienne," Renly told the tall woman.

Her face fell as she searched for words. "You– Your Grace, are you sure? I swear that you will not even—"

"He said you are dismissed, Tarth," Loras barked, unkindly.

"Now, now Ser Loras, there is no need to bite," he reprimanded his lover. He turned to Brienne. "Goodbye, Brienne, you should relax this night. You're always so rigid I fear that you are going to break half the time." Renly laughed but Brienne just looked distraught.

"Your Grace," she bit back the tears as she croaked out the formalities. Brienne turned around and scampered off with slumped shoulders.

Loras scoffed as he walked past him into his tent and Renly smiled. _Someone's jealous,_ he mused. Renly's tent was made of rich fabrics of green and gold and the half a dozen carpets that covered the floor made it soft when your wore no boots. Many would think it absurd and gaudy but Renly was a king and nothing should be too much for him. As Loras paced across the tent, Renly poured himself a glass of Arbor gold, something he was not lacking for since it was the only way that Paxter Redwyne had thought of proving his loyalty without devoting soldiers to Renly's cause. Renly understood why he could not give soldiers, considering his two sons were captives of Cersei. Renly was inclined to forgive him for all and any transgressions because of how much wine he had sent, it was enough to sate the thirst of a force twice the size of his army. He now understood why Robert had gotten as fat as he had.

"A member of the Rainbow Guard?" Loras questioned. "As if I wasn't humiliated enough when she beat me in that tourney."

Renly sighed and put down the Arbor gold. "Brienne is a perfectly good swordsmen . . . or rather swordswomen."

"But do you not think she is strange?" Loras looked puzzled. "I mean, a woman who acts like a man?"

"Of course, I think she is strange," Renly snapped. "A woman in man's armour? The idea is absurd."

"Why do you keep her close then, If you think she is so absurd?"

"Because all the other knights in my service want something from me, castles or honours or riches, but all Brienne wants is to die for me." It's what Robert had during his rebellion. Men and women would have thrown themselves in front of a blade for him to protect him without a hope for reward. That's what Brienne would do for him, all he had to do was ask and she would throw herself on her blade for him. Renly laughed, "And besides, I don't think that we are the best people to judge someone else for being strange."

Renly downed the rest of his goblet and turned to his lover. "Now, take off your armour and forget all about the Tarth woman."

Loras huffed and said, "I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but I believe another Tyrell is in need of your attention." The Lord Commander of the Rainbow Guard stormed out of the king's pavilion, leaving Renly alone with only his thoughts to keep him company.


End file.
